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JAMES  R.  OSGOOD  &  CO.,  Boston. 


NATHANIEL   HAWTHORNE. 


BOSTON: 

JAMES    R.   OSGOOD    AND    COMPANY, 

Late  Ticknor  &  Fields,  and  Fields,  Osgood,  &  Co. 
1876. 


COPYRIGHT,  1851. 

BY  NATHANIEL    HAWTHORNE. 


UNIVERSITY  PRESS:  WELCH,  BIGELOW,  &  Co., 
CAMBRIDGE. 


8RLF 


CONTENTS   OP   VOL.  II. 


LEGENDS  OF  THE  PROVINCE  HOUSE. 
I.    HOWE'S  MASQUERADE   . 
II.    EDWARD  RANDOLPH'S  PORTRAIT 

III.  LADY  ELEANORE'S  MANTLE  . 

IV.  OLD  ESTHER  DUDLEY 
THE  HAUNTED  MIND 

THE  VILLAGE  UNCLE    .... 

THE  AMBITIOUS  GUEST 

THE  SISTER  YEARS         .... 

SNOW-FLAKES     

THE  SEVEN  VAGABONDS 
THE  WHITE  OLD  MAID     . 
PETER  GOLDTHWAITE'S  TREASURE. 


PAGE 

7 

26 

42 

62 

77 

83 

98 

109 

119 

126 

148 

162 


VI  CONTEXTS. 

CHIPPINGS  WITH  A  CHISEL 
THE  SHAKER  BRIDAL    . 
NIGHT  SKETCHES 

ENDICOTT  AND  THE  RED  CROSS    . 
THE  LILY'S  QUEST    . 
FOOTPRINTS  ON  THE  SEA-SHORE    . 
EDWARD  FANE'S  ROSEBUD 
THE  THREEFOLD  DESTINY    . 


.     188 

201 
.  209 

217 
.  226 

235 
.  248 

257 


TWICE  TOLD  TALES. 


LEGENDS  OF  THE  PROVINCE  HOUGE. 


HOWE'S  MASQUERADE. 

NE  afternoon,  last  summer,  whila  walking  along 
Washington  Street,  my  eye  was  attracted  by  a 
sign-board  protruding  over  a  narrow  archway, 
nearly  opposite  the  Old  South  Church.  The  sign  repre- 
sented the  front  of  a  stately  edifice,  which  was  designated 
as  the  "OLD  PROVINCE  HOUSE,  kept  by  Thomas  Waite." 
I  was  glad  to  be  thus  reminded  of  a  purpose,  long  enter- 
tained, of  visiting  and  rambling  over  the  mansion  of  the 
old  royal  governors  of  Massachusetts ;  and  entering  the 
arched  passage,  which  penetrated  through  the  middle  of 
a  brick  row  of  shops,  a  few  steps  transported  me  from 
the  busy  heart  of  modern  Boston  into  a  small  and  se- 
cluded court-yard.  One  side  of  this  space  was  occupied 
by  the  square  front  of  the  Province  House,  three  stories 
high,  and  surmounted  by  a  cupola,  011  the  top  of  which  a 


8  TWICE-TOLD    TALES. 

gilded  Indian  was  discernible,  with  his  bow  bent  and  his 
arrow  on  the  string,  as  if  aiming  at  the  weathercock  on 
the  spire  of  the  Old  South.  The  figure  has  kept  this  at- 
titude for  seventy  years  or  more,  ever  since  good  Deacon 
Drowne,  a  cunning  carver  of  wood,  first  stationed  him  on 
his  long  sentinel's  watch  over  the  city. 

The  Province  House  is  constructed  of  brick,  which 
seems  recently  to  have  been  overlaid  with  a  coat  of  light- 
colored  paint.  A  flight  of  red  freestone  steps,  fenced  in 
by  a  balustrade  of  curiously  wrought  iron,  ascends  from 
the  court-yard  to  the  spacious  porch,  over  which  is  a  bal- 
cony, with  an  iron  balustrade  of  similar  pattern  and  work- 
manship to  that  beneath.  These  letters  and  figures  — 
16  P.  S.  7(«)  —  are  wrought  into  the  iron-work  of  the 
balcony,  and  probably  express  the  date  of  the  edifice, 
with  the  initials  of  its  founder's  name.  A  wide  door  with 
double  leaves  admitted  me  into  the  hall  or  entry,  on  the 
right  of  which  is  the  entrance  to  the  bar-room. 

It  was  hi  this  apartment,  I  presume,  that  the  ancient 
governors  held  their  levees,  with  vice-regal  pomp,  sur- 
rounded by  the  military  men,  the  councillors,  the  judges, 
and  other  officers  of  the  crown,  while  all  the  loyalty  of 
the  province  thronged  to  do  them  honor.  But  the  room, 
in  its  present  condition,  cannot  boast  even  of  faded  mag- 
nificence. The  panelled  wainscot  is  covered  with  dingy 
paint,  and  acquires  a  duskier  hue  from  the  deep  shadow 
into  which  the  Province  House  is  thrown  by  the  brick 
block  that  shuts  it  in  from  Washington  Street.  A  ray 
of  sunshine  never  visits  this  apartment  any  more  than  the 
glare  of  the  festal  torches  which  have  been  extinguished 
from  the  era  of  the  Revolution.  The  most  venerable  and 
ornamental  object  is  a  chimney-piece  set  round  with 
Dutch  tiles  of  blue-figured  China,  representing  scenes 
from  Scripture ;  and,  for  aught  1  know,  the  lady  of 


HOWE'S    MASQUERADE.  9 

Pownall  or  Bernard  may  have  sat  beside  this  fireplace, 
and  told  her  children  the  story  of  each  blue  tile.  A  bar 
in  modern  style,  well  replenished  with  decanters,  bottles, 
cigar-boxes,  and  network  bags  of  lemons,  and  provided 
with  a  beer-pump  and  a  soda-fount,  extends  along  one 
side  of  the  room.  At  my  entrance,  an  elderly  person 
was  smacking  his  lips,  with  a  zest  which  satisfied  me  that 
the  cellars  of  the  Province  House  still  hold  good  liquor, 
though  doubtless  of  other  vintages  than  were  quaffed  by 
the  old  governors.  After  sipping  a  glass  of  port  sangaree, 
prepared  by  the  skilful  hands  of  Mr.  Thomas  Waite,  I  be- 
sought that  worthy  successor  and  representative  of  so 
many  historic  personages  to  conduct  me  over  their  time- 
honored  mansion. 

He  readily  complied  ;  but,  to  confess  the  truth,  I  was 
forced  to  draw  strenuously  upon  my  imagination,  in  order 
to  find  aught  that  was  interesting  in  a  house  which,  with- 
out its  historic  associations,  would  have  seemed  merely 
such  a  tavern  as  is  usually  favored  by  the  custom  of 
decent  city  boarders  and  old-fashioned  country  gentle- 
man. The  chambers,  which  were  probably  spacious  in 
former  times,  are  now  cut  up  by  partitions,  and  subdi- 
vided into  little  nooks,  each  affording  scanty  room  for 
the  narrow  bed  and  chair  and  dressing-table  of  a  singb 
lodger.  The  great  staircase,  however,  may  be  termed, 
without  much  hyperbole,  a  feature  of  grandeur  and  mag- 
nificence. It  winds  through  the  midst  of  the  house  by 
flights  of  broad  steps,  each  flight  terminating  in  a  square 
landiug-place,  whence  the  ascent  is  continued  towards  the 
cupola.  A  carved  balustrade,  freshly  painted  in  the  lower 
stories,  but  growing  dingier  as  we  ascend,  borders  the 
staircase  with  its  quaintly  twisted  and  intertwined  pillars, 
from  top  to  bottom.  Up  these  stairs  the  military  boots, 
or  perchance  the  gouty  shoes,  of  many  a  governor  have 
1  * 


10  TWICE-TOLD    TALES. 

trodden,  as  the  wearers  mounted  to  the  cupola,  which 
afforded  them  so  wide  a  view  over  their  metropolis  and 
tli3  surrounding  country.  The  cupola  is  an  octagon,  with 
several  windows,  and  a  door  opening  upon  the  roof. 
From  this  station,  as  I  pleased  myself  with  imagining, 
Gage  may  have  beheld  his  disastrous  victory  on  Bunker 
Hill  (unless  one  of  the  tri-mountains  intervened),  and 
Howe  have  marked  the  approaches  of  Washington's  be- 
sieging army ;  although  the  buildings,  since  erected  in 
the  vicinity,  have  shut  out  almost  every  object,  save  the 
steeple  of  the  Old  South,  which  seems  almost  within 
arm's  length.  Descending  from  the  cupola,  1  paused  in 
the  garret  to  observe  the  ponderous  white-oak  frame- 
work, so  much  more  massive  than  the  frames  of  modern 
houses,  and  thereby  resembling  an  antique  skeleton.  The 
bricjt  walls,  the  materials  of  which  were  imported  from 
Holland,  and  the  timbers  of  the  mansion,  are  still  as 
sound  as  ever;  but  the  floors  and  other  interior  parts 
being  greatly  decayed,  it  is  contemplated  to  gut  the 
whole,  and  build  a  new  house  within  the  ancient  frame 
nnd  brick-work.  Among  other  inconveniences  of  the 
present  edifice,  mine  host  mentioned  that  any  jar  or 
motion  was  apt  to  shake  down  the  dust  of  ages  out 
of  the  ceiling  of  one  chamber  upon  the  floor  of  that 
beneath  it. 

We  stepped  forth  from  the  great  front  window  into  the 
balcony,  where,  in  old  times,  it  was  doubtless  the  custom 
of  the  king's  representative  to  show  himself  to  a  loyal 
populace,  requiting  their  huzzas  and  tossed-up  hats  with 
s'ately  bendings  of  his  dignified  person.  In  those  days, 
the  front  of  the  Province  House  looked  upon  the  street; 
and  the  whole  site  now  occupied  by  the  brick  range  of 
stores,  as  well  as  the  present  court -yard,  was  laid  out  in 
grass-plats,  overshadowed  by  trees  and  bordered  by  a 


HOWE'S    MASQUERADE.  11 

wrought-iron  fence.  Now,  the  old  aristocratic  edifice 
hides  its  time-worn  visage  behind  an  upstart  modern 
building ;  at  one  of  the  back  windows  I  observed  some 
pretty  tailoresses,  sewing,  and  chatting,  and  laughing, 
with  now  and  then  a  careless  glance  towards  the  balcony. 
Descending  thence,  we  again  entered  the  bar-room,  where 
the  elderly  gentleman  above  mentioned,  the  smack  of 
whose  lips  had  spoken  so  favorably  for  Mr.  Waite's  good 
liquor,  was  still  lounging  in  his  chair.  He  seemed  to  be, 
if  not  a  lodger,  at  least  a  familiar  visitor  of  the  house, 
who  might  be  supposed  to  have  his  regular  score  at  the 
bar,  his  summer  seat  at  the  open  window,  and  his  pre- 
scriptive corner  at  the  winter's  fireside.  Being  of  a 
sociable  aspect,  I  ventured  to  address  him  with  a  remark, 
calculated  to  draw  forth  his  historical  reminiscences,  if 
any  such  were  in  his  mind ;  and  it  gratified  me  to  dis- 
cover, that,  between  memory  and  tradition,  the  old  gen- 
tleman was  really  possessed  of  some  very  pleasant  gossip 
about  the  Province  House.  The  portion  of  his  talk  which 
chiefly  interested  me  was  the  outline  of  the  following 
legend.  He  professed  to  have  received  it  at  one  or  two 
removes  from  an  eye-witness  ;  but  this  derivation,  to- 
gether with  the  lapse  of  time,  must  have  afforded  oppor- 
tunities for  many  variations  of  the  narrative ;  so  that, 
despairing  of  literal  and  absolute  truth,  I  have  not  scru- 
pled to  make  such  further  changes  as  seemed  conducive 
to  the  reader's  profit  and  delight. 


At  one  of  the  entertainments  given  at  the  Province 
House,  during  the  latter  part  of  the  siege  of  Boston, 
ihere  passed  a  scene  which  has  never  yet  been  satis- 
factorily explained.  The  officers  of  the  British  army, 


12  TWICE-TOLD    TALES. 

and  the  loyal  gentry  of  the  province,  most  of  whom  were 
collected  within  the  beleagured  town,  had  been  invited 
to  a  masked  ball ;  for  it  was  the  policy  of  Sir  William 
Howe  to  hide  the  distress  and  danger  of  the  period,  and 
the  desperate  aspect  of  the  siege,  under  an  ostentation 
of  festivity.  The  spectacle  of  this  evening;  if  the  oldest 
members  of  the  provincial  court  circle  might  be  believed, 
was  the  most  gay  and  gorgeous  affair  that  had  occurred 
in  the  annals  of  the  government.  The  brilliantly  lighted 
apartments  were  thronged  writh  figures  that  seemed  to 
have  stepped  from  the  dark  canvas  of  historic  portraits, 
or  to  have  flitted  forth  from  the  magic  pages  of  romance, 
or  at  least  to  have  flown  hither  from  one  of  the  London 
theatres,  without  a  change  of  garments.  Steeled  knights 
of  the  Conquest,  bearded  statesmen  of  Queen  Elizabeth, 
and  high-ruffled  ladies  of  her  court,  were  mingled  with 
characters  of  comedy,  such  as  a  party-colored  Merry 
Andrew,  jingling  his  cap  and  bells ;  a  Falstaff,  almost  as 
provocative  of  laughter  as  his  prototype ;  and  a  Don 
Quixote,  with  a  bean-pole  for  a  lance  and  a  potlid  for  a 
shield. 

But  the  broadest  merriment  was  excited  by.  a  group 
of  figures  ridiculously  dressed  in  old  regimentals,  which 
seemed  to  have  been  purchased  at  a  military  rag-fair,  or 
pilfered  from  some  receptacle  of  the  cast-off  clothes  of 
both  the  French  and  British  armies.  Portions  of  their 
attire  had  probably  been  worn  at  the  siege  of  Louisburg, 
and  the  coats  of  most  recent  cut  might  have  been  rent 
and  tattered  by  sword,  ball,  or  bayonet,  as  long  ago  as 
Wolfe's  victory.  One  of  these  worthies — a  tall,  lank 
figure,  brandishing  a  rusty  sword  of  immense  longitude 
—  purported  to  be  no  less  a  personage  than  General 
George  Washington ;  and  the  other  principal  officers  of 
the  American  army,  such  as  Gates,  Lee,  Putnam,  Schuy- 


HOWE'S    MASQUERADE.  13 

ler,  Ward,  and  Heath,  were  represented  by  similar  scare- 
crows. An  interview  in  the  mock-heroic  style,  between 
the  rebel  warriors  and  the  British  commander-in-chief, 
was  received  with  immense  applause,  which  came  loudest 
of  all  from  the  loyalists  of  the  colony.  There  was  one 
of  the  guests,  however,  who  stood  apart,  eying  thes3 
antics  sternly  and  scornfully,  at  once  with  a  frown  and  a 
bitter  smile. 

It  was  an  old  man,  formerly  of  high  station  and  great 
repute  in  the  province,  and  who  had  been  a  very  famous 
soldier  in  his  day.  Some  surprise  had  been  expressed, 
that  a  person  of  Colonel  Joliffe's  known  whig  principles, 
though  now  too  old  to  take  an  active  part  in  the  contest, 
should  have  remained  in  Boston  during  the  siege,  and 
especially  that  hs  should  consent  to  show  himself  in  the 
mansion  of  Sir  William  Howe.  But  thither  he  had  come, 
with  a  fair  granddaughter  under  his  arm  ;  and  there, 
amid  all  the  mirth  and  buffoonery,  stood  this  stern  old 
figure,  the  bsst  sustained  character  in  the  masquerade,  be- 
cause so  well  representing  the  antique  spirit  of  his  native 
land.  The  other  guests  affirmed  that  Colonel  Joliffe's 
black  puritanical  scowl  threw  a  shadow  round  about 
him;  although  in  spite  of  his  sombre  influence,  their 
gayety  continued  to  blaze  higher,  like  (an  ominous 
comparison)  the  flickering  brilliancy  of  a  lamp  which 
has  but  a  little  while  to  burn.  Eleven  strokes,  full  half 
an  hour  ago,  had  pealed  from  the  clock  of  the  Old  South, 
when  a  rumor  was  circulated  among  the  company  that 
some  new  spectacle  or  pageant  was  about  to  be  exhibited, 
which  should  put  a  fitting  close  to  the  splendid  festivities 
of  the  night. 

"  What  new  jest  has  your  Excellency  in  hand  ?  "  asked 
the  llev.  Mather  Byles,  whose  Presbyterian  scruples  had 
not  kept  him  from  the  entertainment.  "  Trust  me,  sir, 


14  TWICE-TOLD   TALES. 

I  have  already  lauglied  more  than  beseems  my  cloth,  at 
your  Homeric  confabulation  with  yonder  ragamuffin  gen- 
eral of  the  rebels.  One  other  such  fit  of  merriment,  and 
I  must  throw  off  my  clerical  wig  and  band." 

"  Not  so,  good  Dr.  Byles,"  answered  Sir  William 
Howe ;  "  if  mirth  were  a  crime,  you  had  never  gained 
your  doctorate  in  divinity.  As  to  this  new  foolery,  I 
know  no  more  about  it  than  yourself;  perhaps  not  so 
much.  Honestly  now,  Doctor,  have  you  not  stirred  up 
the  sober  brains  of  some  of  your  countrymen  to  enact  a 
scene  in  our  masquerade  ?  " 

"  Perhaps,"  slyly  remarked  the  granddaughter  of  Col- 
onel  Joliffe,  whose  high  spirit  had  been  stung  by  many 
taunts  against  New  England,  —  "  perhaps  we  are  to  have 
a  mask  of  allegorical  figures.  Victory,  with  trophies  from 
Lexington  and  Bunker  Hill,  —  Plenty,  with  her  over- 
flowing horn,  to'  typify  the  present  abundance  in  this 
good  town,  —  and  Glory,  with  a  wreath  for  his  Excel- 
lency's brow." 

Sir  William  Howe  smiled  at  words  which  he  would 
have  answered  with  one  of  his  darkest  frowns,  had  they 
been  uttered  by  lips  that  wore  a  beard.  He  was  spared 
the  necessity  of  a  retort,  by  a  singular  interruption.  A 
sound  of  music  was  heard  without  the  house,  as  if  pro- 
ceeding from  a  full  band  of  military  instruments  stationed 
in  the  street,  playing,  not  such  a  festal  strain  as  was 
suited  to  the  occasion,  but  a  slow  funeral  march.  The 
drums  appeared  to  be  muffled,  and  the  trumpets  poured 
forth  a  wailing  breath,  which  at  once  hushed  the  merri- 
ment of  the  auditors,  filling  all  with  wonder  and  some 
with  apprehension.  The  idea  occurred  to  many,  that 
either  the  funeral  procession  of  some  great  personage  had 
halted  in  front  of  the  Province  House,  or  that  a  corpse, 
in  a  velvet-covered  and  gorgeously  decorated  coffin,  was 


HOWE'S    MASQUERADE.  15 

about  to  be  borne  from  the  portal.  After  listening  a 
moment,  Sir  William  Howe  called,  in  a  stern  voice,  to 
the  leader  of  the  musicians,  who  had  hitherto  enlivened 
the  entertainment  with  gay  and  lightsome  melodies. 
The  man  was  drum-major  to  one  of  the  British  regi- 
ments. 

"  Dighton,"  demanded  the  general,  "  what  means  this 
foolery  ?  Bid  your  baud  silence  that  dead  march ;  or, 
by  my  word,  they  shall  have  sufficient  cause  for  their 
lugubrious  strains  !  Silence  it,  sirrah  !  " 

"Please  your  Honor,"  answered  the  drum-major, 
whose  rubicund  visage  had  lost  all  its  color,  "  the  fault 
is  none  of  mine.  I  and  my  band  are  all  here  together ; 
and  I  question  whether  there  be  a  man  of  us  that  could 
play  that  march  without  book.  I  never  heard  it  but 
once  before,  and  that  was  at  the  funeral  of  his  late 
Majesty,  King  George  the  Second." 

"  Well,  well !  "  said  Sir  William  Howe,  recovering 
his  composure ;  "  it  is  the  prelude  to  some  masquerad- 
ing antic.  Let  it  pass." 

A  figure  now  presented  itself,  but,  among  the  many 
fantastic  masks  that  were  dispersed  through  the  apart- 
ments, none  could  tell  precisely  from  whence  it  carne. 
It  was  a  man  in  an  old-fashioned  dress  of  black  serge, 
and  having  the  aspect  of  a  steward,  or  principal  domestic 
in  the  household  of  a  nobleman,  or  great  English  land- 
holder. This  figure  advanced  to  the  outer  door  of  the 
mansion,  and  throwing  both  its  leaves  wide  open,  with- 
drew a  little  to  one  side  and  looked  back  towards  the 
grand  staircase,  as  if  expecting  some  person  to  descend. 
At  the  same  time,  the  music  in  the  street  sounded  a  loud 
and  doleful  summons.  The  eyes  of  Sir  William  Howe 
and  his  guests  being  directed  to  the  staircase,  there 
appeared,  on  the  uppermost  landing-place  that  was  dis- 


16  TWICE-TOLD    TALES. 

cernible  from  the  bottom,  several  personages  descending 
towards  the  door.  The  foremost  was  a  man  of  stern 
visage,  wearing  a  steeple-crowned  hat  and  a  skullcap 
beneath  it;  a  dark  cloak,  and  huge  wrinkled  boots  that 
came  half-way  up  his  legs.  Under  his  arm  was  a  rolled- 
up  banner,  which  seemed  to  be  the  banner  of  England, 
but  strangely  rent  and  torn  ;  he  had  a  sword  in  his  right 
hand,  and  grasped  a  Bible  in  his  left.  The  next  figure 
was  of  milder  aspect,  yet  full  of  dignity,  wearing  a  broad 
ruff",  over  which  descended  a  beard,  a  gown  of  wrought 
velvet,  and  a  doublet  and  hose  of  black  satin.  He  car- 
ried a  roll  of  manuscript  in  his  hand.  Close  behind 
these  two  came  a  young  man  of  very  striking  counte- 
nance and  demeanor,  witli  deep  thought  and  contempla- 
tion on  his  brow,  and  perhaps  a  flash  of  enthusiasm  in 
his  eye.  His  garb,  like  that  of  his  predecessors,  was  of 
an  antique  fashion,  and  there  was  a  stain  of  blood  upon 
his  ruff.  In  the  same  group  with  these  were  three  or 
four  others,  all  men  of  dignity  and  evident  command, 
and  bearing  themselves  like  personages  who  were  accus- 
tomed to  the  gaze  of  the  multitude.  It  was  the  idea  of 
the  beholders,  that  these  figures  went  to  join  the  myste- 
rious funeral  that  had  halted  in  front  of  the  Province 
House;  yet  that  supposition  seemed  to  be  contradict ed 
by  the  air  of  triumph  with  which  they  waved  their  hands, 
as  they  crossed  the  threshold  and  vanished  through  the 
portal. 

"  In  the  Devil's  name,  what  is  this  ?  "  muttered  Sir 
William  Howe  to  a  gentleman  beside  him;  "a  pro- 
cession of  the  regicide  judges  of  King  Charles  the 
martyr?" 

"  These,"  said  Colonel  Joliffe,  breaking  silence  almost 
for  the  first  time  that  evening,  —  "these,  if  I  interpret 
them  aright,  are  the  Puritan  governors,  —  the  rulers  of 


HOWE'S    MASQUERADE.  17 

the  old,  original  democracy  of  Massachusetts.  Endi- 
cott,  with  the  banner  from  which  lie  had  torn  the  sym- 
bol of  subjection,  and  Winthrop,  and  Sir  Henry  Vane, 
and  Dudley,  Haynes,  Bellingham,  arid  Lsverett." 

"  Why  had  that  young  man  a  stain  of  blood  upon  his 
ruff  ?  "  asked  Miss  Joliffe. 

"  Because,  in  after  years,"  answered  her  grandfather, 
"he  laid  down  the  wisest  head  in  England  upon  the 
block,  for  the  principles  of  liberty." 

"  Will  not  your  Excellency  order  out  the  guard  ?  " 
whispered  Lord  Percy,  who,  with  other  British  officers, 
had  now  assembled  round  the  general.  "  There  may  be 
a  plot  under  this  mummery." 

"Tush!  we  have  nothing  to  fear,"  carelessly  replied 
Sir  William  Howe.  "  There  can  be  no  worse  treason  in 
the  matter  than  a  jest,  and  that  somewhat  of  the  dullest. 
Even  were  it  a  sharp  and  bitter  one,  our  best  policy 
would  be  to  laugh  it  off.  See,  here  come  more  of  these 
gentry." 

Another  group  of  characters  had  now  partly  descend- 
ed the  staircase.  The  first  was  a  venerable  and  white- 
boarded  patriarch,  who  cautiously  felt  his  way  downward 
with  a  staff.  Treading  hastily  behind  him,  and  stretch- 
ing forth  his  gauntleted  hand  as  if  to  grasp  the  old  man's 
shoulder,  came  a  tall,  soldier-like  figure,  equipped  with 
a  plumed  cap  of  steel,  a  bright  breastplate,  and  a  long 
sword,  which  rattled  against  the  stairs.  Next  was  seen 
a  stout  man,  dressed  in  rich  and  courtly  attire,  but  not 
of  courtly  demeanor;  his  gait  had  the  swinging  motion 
of  a  seaman's  walk  ;  and  cha«cmg  to  stumble  on  the 
staircase,  he  suddenly  grew  wrathful,  and  was  heard  to 
mutter  an  oath.  He  was  followed  by  a  noble-looking 
personage  in  a  curled  wig,  such  as  are  represented  in  the 
portraits  of  Queen  Anne's  time  and  earlier ;  and  the 


18  .  TWICE-TOLD    TALES. 

breast  of  his  coat  was  decorated  with  an  embroidered 
star.  While  advancing  to  the  door,  lie  bowed  to  the 
right  hand  and  to  the  left,  in  a  very  gracious  and  insin- 
uating style;  but  as  he  crossed  the  threshold,  unlike  the 
early  Puritan  governors,  he  seemed  to  wring  his  hands 
with  sorrow. 

"  Prithee,  play  the  part  of  a  chorus,  good  Dr.  Bylcs," 
said  Sir  William  Howe.  "  What  worthies  are  these  ?  " 

"  If  it  please  your  Excellency,  they  lived  somewhat 
before  my  day,"  answered  the  Doctor ;  "  but  doubtless 
our  friend,  the  Colonel,  has  been  hand  in  glove  with 
them." 

"Their living  faces  I  never  looked  upon,"  said  Colonel 
Joliffc,  gravely ;  "  although  I  have  spoken  face  to  face 
with  many  rulers  of  this  land,  and  shall  greet  yet  another 
with  an  old  man's  blessing,  ere  I  die.  But  we  talk  of 
these  figures.  I  take  the  venerable  patriarch  to  be  Brad- 
street,  the  last  of  the  Puritans,  who  was  governor  at 
ninety,  or  thereabouts.  The  next  is  Sir  Edmund  Andros, 
a  tyrant,  as  any  New  England  school-boy  will  tell  you ; 
and  therefore  the  people  cast  him  down  from  his  high  scat 
into  a  dungeon.  Then  comes  Sir  William  Phipps,  shep- 
herd, cooper,  sea-captain,  and  governor:  may  many  of 
his  countrymen  rise  as  high,  from  as  low  an  origin  ! 
Lastly,  you  saw  the  gracious  Earl  of  Bellamont,  who 
ruled  us  under  King  William." 

"  But  what  is  the  meaning  of  it  all  ?  "  asked  Lord 
Percy. 

"  Now,  were  I  a  rebel,"  said  Miss  Jolific,  half  aloud, 
"  I  might  fancy  that  the  ghosts  of  these  ancient  govern- 
ors had  been  summoned  to  form  the  funeral  procession  of 
royal  authority  in  New  England." 

Several  other  figures  were  now  seen  at  the  turn  of  the 
staircase.  The  one  in  advance  had  a  thoughtful,  anxious, 


HOWE'S    MASQUERADE.  19 

and  somewhat  crafty  expression  of  face  ;  and  in  spite  of 
his  loftiness  of  manner,  which  was  evidently  the  result 
both  of  an  ambitious  spirit  and  of  long  continuance  in 
high  stations,  he  seemed  not  incapable  of  cringing  to  a 
greater  than  himself.  A  few  steps  behind  came  an  officer 
in  a  scarlet  and  embroidered  uniform,  cut  in  a  fashion  old 
enough  to  have  been  worn  by  the  Duke  of  Marlborougli. 
His  nose  had  a  rubicund  tinge,  which,  together  with  the 
twinkle  of  his  eye,  might  have  marked  him  as  a  lover  of 
the  wine-cup  and  good-fellowship  ;  notwithstanding  which 
tokens,  he  appeared  ill  at  ease,  and  often  glanced  around 
him,  as  if  apprehensive  of  some  secret  mischief.  Next 
came  a  portly  gentleman,  wearing  a  coat  of  shaggy  cloth, 
lined  with  silken  velvet ;  he  had  sense,  shrewdness,  and 
humor  in  his  face,  and  a  folio  volume  under  his  arm  ;  but 
his  aspect  was  that  of  a  man  vexed  and  tormented  beyond 
all  patience  and  harassed  almost  to  death.  He  went 
hastily  down,  and  was  followed  by  a  dignified  person, 
dressed  in  a  purple  velvet  suit,  with  very  rich  embroidery  ; 
his  demeanor  would  have  possessed  much  stateliness,  only 
that  a  grievous  fit  of  the  gout  compelled  him  to  hobble 
from  stair  to  stair,  with  contortions  of  face  and  body. 
When  Dr.  Byles  beheld  this  figure  on  the  staircase,  he 
shivered  as  with  an  ague,  but  continued  to  watch  him 
steadfastly,  until  the  gouty  gentleman  had  reached  the 
threshold,  made  a  gesture  of  anguish  and  despair,  and 
vanished  into  the  outer  gloom,  whither  the  funeral  music 
summoned  him. 

"  Governor  Belcher  !  —  my  old  patron  !  —  in  his  very 
shape  and  dress  !  "  gasped  Dr.  Byles.  "  This  is  an  awful 
mockery ! " 

"A  tedious  foolery,  rather,"  said  Sir  William  Howe, 
with  an  air  of  indifference.  "  But  who  were  the  three 
that  precedsd  him  ?  " 


20  TWICE-TOLD    TALES. 

"Governor  Dudley,  a  cunning  politician, — yet  his 
craft  once  brought  him  to  a  prison,"  replied  Colonel 
Joliffe ;  "  Governor  Shute,  formerly  a  colonel  under 
Marlborough,  and  whom  the  paople  frightened  out  of  the 
province;  and  learned  Governor  Burnet,  whom  the  Legis- 
lature tormented  into  a  mortal  fever." 

"Methiuks  they  were  miserable  men,  these  royal 
governors  of  Massachusetts,"  observed  Miss  Joliife. 
"  Heavens,  how  dim  the  light  grows  !  " 

It  was  certainly  a  fact  that  the  large  lamp  which  illu- 
minated the  staircase  now  burned  dim  and  duskily :  so 
that  several  figures,  which  passed  hastily  down  the  stairs 
and  went  forth  from  the  porch,  appeared  rather  like 
shadows  than  persons  of  fleshly  substance.  Sir  William 
Howe  and  his  guests  stood  at  the  doors  of  the  contigu- 
ous apartments,  watching  the  progress  of  this  singular 
pageant,  with  various  emotions  of  anger,  contempt,  or 
half-acknowledged  fear,  but  still  with  an  anxious  curios- 
ity. The  shapes,  which  now  seemed  hastening  to  join  the 
mysterious  procession,  were  recognized  rather  by  striking 
peculiarities  of  dress,  or  broad  characteristics  of  manner, 
than  by  any  perceptible  resemblance  of  features  to  their 
prototypes.  Their  faces,  indeed,  were  invariably  kept  in 
deep  shadow.  But  Dr.  Byles,  and  other  gentlemen  who 
had  long  been  familiar  with  the  successive  rulers  of  the 
province,  were  heard  to  whisper  the  names  of  Shirley,  of 
Pownall,  of  Sir  Francis  Bernard,  and  of  the  well-remem- 
bered Hutchinson;  thereby  confessing  that  the  actors, 
whoever  they  might  be,  in  this  spectral  march  of  govern- 
ors, had  succeeded  in  putting  on  some  distant  portraiture 
of  the  real  personages.  As  they  vanished  from  the  door, 
still  did  these  shadows  toss  their  arms  into  the  gloom 
of  night,  with  a  dread  expression  of  woe.  Following 
the  mimic  representative  of  Hutchinson  came  a  military 


HOWE'S    MASQUERADE.  21 

figure,  holding  before  his  face  the  cocked  hat  which  lie 
had  taken  from  his  powdered  head ;  but  his  epaulets  and 
other  insignia  of  rank  were  those  of  a  general  officer ; 
and  something  in  his  mien  reminded  the  beholders  of  one 
who  had  recently  been  master  of  the  Province  House,  and 
chief  of  all  the  land. 

"  The  shape  of  Gag3,  as  true  as  in  a  looking-glass  !  " 
exclaimed  Lord  Percy,  turning  pale. 

"  No,  surely,"  cried  Miss  Joliffe,  laughing  hysterically ; 
"  it  could  not  be  Gage,  or  Sir  William  would  have  greeted 
his  old  comrade  in  arms  !  Perhaps  he  will  not  suffer  the 
next  to  pass  unchallenged." 

"  Of  that  be  assured,  young  lady,"  answered  Sir  Wil- 
liam Howe,  fixing  his  eyes,  with  a  very  marked  expression, 
upon  the  immovable  visage  of  her  grandfather.  "  I  have 
long  enough  delayed  to  pay  the  ceremonies  of  a  host  to 
these  departing  guests.  The  next  that  takes  his  leave 
shall  receive  due  courtesy." 

A  wild  and  dreary  burst  of  music  came  through  the 
open  door.  It  seemed  as  if  the  procession,  which  had 
been  gradually  filling  up  its  ranks,  were  now  about  to 
move,  and  that  this  loud  peal  of  the  wailing  trumpets, 
and  roll  of  the  muffled  drums,  were  a  call  to  some  loiterer 
to  make  haste.  Many  eyes,  by  an  irresistible  impulse, 
were  turned  upon  Sir  William  Howe,  as  if  it  were  he 
whom  the  dreary  music  summoned  to  the  funeral  of  de- 
parted power. 

"  See  !  —  here  comes  the  last !  "  whispered  Miss  Joliffe, 
pointing  her  tremulous  finger  to  the  staircase. 

A  figure  had  come  into  view  as  if  descending  the 
stairs;  although  so  dusky  was  the  region  whence  it 
emerged,  some  of  the  spectators  fancied  that  they  had 
seen  this  human  shape  suddenly  moulding  itself  amid 
the  gloom.  Downward  the  figure  came,  with  a  stately 


22  TWICE-TOLD    TALES. 

and  martial  tread,  and  reaching  the  lowest  stair  was  ob- 
served to  be  a  tall  man,  booted  and  wrapped  in  a  mili- 
tary cloak,  which  was  drawn  up  around  the  face  so  as 
to  meet  the  flapped  brim  of  a  laced  hat.  The  features, 
therefore,  were  completely  hidden.  But  the  British  offi- 
cers deemed  that  they  had  seen  that  military  cloak  be- 
fore, and  even  recognized  the  frayed  embroidery  on  the 
collar,  as  well  as  the  gilded  scabbard  of  a  sword  which 
protruded  from  the  folds  of  the  cloak,  and  glittered  in 
a  vivid  gleam  of  light.  Apart  from  these  trifling  par- 
ticulars, there  were  characteristics  of  gait  and  bearing 
which  impelled  the  wondering  guests  to  glance  from 
the  shrouded  figure  to  Sir  William  Howe,  as  if  to  sat- 
isfy themselves  that  their  host  had  not  suddenly  vanished 
from  the  midst  of  them. 

With  a  dark  flush  of  wrath  upon  his  brow,  they  saw 
the  general  draw  his  sword  and  advance  to  meet  the 
figure  in  the  cloak  before  the  latter  had  stepped  one 
pace  upon  the  floor. 

"Villain,  unmuffle  yourself!"  cried  he.  "You  pass 
no  farther ! " 

The  figure,  without  blenching  a  hair's-breadth  from 
the  sword  which  was  pointed  at  his  breast,  made  a 
solemn  pause  and  lowered  the  cape  of  the  cloak  from 
about  his  face,  yet  not  sufficiently  for  the  spectators  to 
catch  a  glimpse  of  it.  But  Sir  William  Howe  had  evi- 
dently seen  enough.  The  sternness  of  his  countenance 
gave  place  to  a  look  of  wild  amazement,  if  not  horror, 
while  he  recoiled  several  steps  from  the  figure,  and  let 
fall  his  sword  upon  the  floor.  The  martial  shape  again 
drew  the  cloak  about  his  features  and  passed  on;  but 
reaching  the  threshold,  with  his  back  towards  the  spec- 
tators, lie  was  seen  to  stamp  his  foot  and  shake  his 
clinched  hands  in  the  air.  It  was  afterwards  affirmed 


HOWE'S    MASQUERADE.  23 

that  Sir  William  Howe  had  repeated  that  self-same  ges- 
ture of  rage  and  sorrow,  when,  for  the  last  time,  and 
as  the  last  royal  governor,  he  passed  through  the  portal 
of  the  Province  House. 

"  Hark !  —  the, procession  moves,"  said  Miss  Joliffe. 

The  music  was  dying  away  along  the  street,  and  its 
dismal  strains  were  mingled  with  the  knell  of  midnight 
from  the  steeple  of  the  Old  South,  and  with  the  roar  of 
artillery,  which  announced  that  the  beleaguering  army 
of  Washington  had  intrenched  itself  upon  a  nearer  height 
than  before.  As  the  daep  boom  of  the  cannon  smote 
upon  his  ear,  Colonel  Joliffe  raised  hiinsslf  to  the  full 
height  of  his  aged  form,  and  smiled  sternly  on  the  Brit- 
ish general. 

"  Would  your  Excellency  inquire  further  into  the  mys- 
tery of  the  pageant  ?  "  said  he. 

"  Take  care  of  your  gray  head !  "  cried  Sir  William 
Howe,  fiercely,  though  with  a  quivering  lip.  "  It  has 
stood  too  long  on  a  traitor's  shoulders ! " 

"  You  must  make  haste  to  chop  it  off,  then,"  calmly 
replied  the  Colonel;  "for  a  few  hours  longar,  and  not 
all  the  power  of  Sir  William  Howe,  nor  of  his  master, 
shall  cause  one  of  these  gray  hairs  to  fall.  The  empire 
of  Britain,  in  this  ancient  province,  is  at  its  last  gasp 
to-iiight ;  almost  while  I  speak  it  is  a  daad  corpse ; 
and  methiuks  the  shadows  of  the  old  governors  are  fit 
mourners  at  its  funeral !  " 

With  these  words  Colonel  Joliffe  threw  on  his  cloak, 
and  drawing  his  granddaughter's  arm  within  his  own, 
retired  from  the  last  festival  that  a  British  ruler  ever 
held  in  the  old  province  of  Massachusetts  Bay.  It  was 
supposed  that  the  Colonel  and  the  young  lady  possessed 
some  secret  intelligence  in  regard  to  the  mysterious 
pageant  of  that  night.  However  this  might  be,  such 


24  TWICE-TOLD    TALES. 

knowledge  Las  never  become  general.  The  actors  in 
the  scene  have  vanished  into  deeper  obscurity  than  even 
that  wild  Indian  baud  who  scattered  the  cargoes  of  the 
tea-ships  on  the  waves,  and  gained  a  place  in  history, 
yet  left  no  names.  But  superstition,  among  other  legends 
of  this  mansion,  repeats  the  wondrous  tale,  that  on  the 
anniversary  night  of  Britain's  discomfiture,  the  ghosts 
of  the  ancient  governors  of  Massachusetts  still  glide 
through  the  portal  of  the  Province  House.  And,  last 
of  all,  comes  a  figure  shrouded  in  a  military  cloak,  toss- 
ing his  clinched  hands  into  the  air,  and  stamping  his 
iron-shod  boots  upon  the  broad  freestone  steps  with  a 
semblance  of  feverish  despair,  but  without  the  sound  of 
a  foot-tramp. 


When  the  truth-telling  accents  of  the  elderly  gentle- 
man were  hushed,  I  drew  a  long  breath  and  looked 
round  the  room,  striving,  with  the  best  energy  of  my 
imagination,  to  throw  a  tinge  of  romance  and  historic 
grandeur  over  the  realities  of  the  scene.  But  my  nos- 
trils snuffed  up  a  scent  of  cigar-smoke,  clouds  of  which 
the  narrator  had  emitted  by  way  of  visible  emblem,  I 
suppose,  of  the  nebulous  obscurity  of  his  tale.  More- 
over, my  gorgeous  fantasies  were  wofully  disturbed  by 
the  rattling  of  the  spoon  in  a  tumbler  of  whiskey  punch, 
which  Mr.  Thomas  Waite  was  mingling  for  a  customer. 
Nor  did  it  add  to  the  picturesque  appearance  of  the  pan- 
elled walls,  that  the  slate  of  the  Brookline  stage  was 
suspended  against  them,  instead  of  the  armorial  es- 
cutcheon of  some  far-descended  governor.  A  stage- 
driver  sat  at  one  of  the  windows,  reading  a  penny  paper 
of  the  day,  —  the  Boston  Times,  —  and  presenting  a  fig- 
ure which  could  nowise  be  brought  into  any  picture  of 


HOWE'S    MASQUERADE.  25 

"Times  in  Boston,"  seventy  or  a  hundred  years  ago. 
On  the  window-seat  lay,  a  bundle,  neatly  done  up  in 
brown  paper,  the  direction  of  which  I  had  the  idle  curi- 
osity to  read.  "  Miss  SUSAN  HUGGINS,  at  the  PROVINCE 
HOUSE."  A  pretty  chambermaid,  no  doubt.  In  truth, 
it  is  desperately  hard  work,  when  we  attempt  to  throw 
the  spell  of  hoar  antiquity  over  localities  with  which 
the  living  world,  and  the  day  that  is  passing  over  us, 
have  aught  to  do.  Yet,  as  I  glanced  at  the  stately  stair- 
case, down  which  the  procession  of  the  old  governors 
had  descended,  and  as  I  emerged  through  the  venerable 
portal,  whence  their  figures  had  preceded  me,  it  glad- 
dened me  to  be  conscious  of  a  thrill  of  awe.  Then 
diving  through  the  narrow  archway,  a  few  strides  trans- 
ported me  into  ths  dsnsest  throng  of  Washington  Street. 


LEGENDS  OF  THE  PROVINCE  HOUSE. 


II. 


EDWARD  RANDOLPH'S  PORTRAIT. 

|HE  old  legendary  guest  of  the  Province  House 
abode  in  my  remembrance  from  midsummer  till 
I  January.  One  idle  evening,  last  winter,  confi- 
dent that  he  would  be  found  in  the  snuggest  comer  of  the 
bar-room,  I  resolved  to  pay  him  another  visit,  hoping  to 
deserve  well  of  my  country  by  snatching  from  oblivion 
some  else  unheard-of  fact  of  history.  The  night  was 
chill  and  raw,  and  rendered  boisterous  by  almost  a  gale 
of  wind,  which  whistled  along  Washington  Street,  caus- 
ing the  gaslights  to  flare  and  flicker  within  the  lamps. 
As  I  hurried  onward,  my  fancy  was  busy  with  a  compar- 
ison between  the  present  aspect  of  the  street,  and  that 
which  it  probably  wore  when  the  British  governors  in- 
habited the  mansion  whither  I  was  now  going.  Brick 
edifices  in  those  times  were  few,  till  a  succession  of  de- 
structive fires  had  swept,  and  swept  again,  the  wooden 
dwellings  and  warehouses  from  the  most  populous  quar- 
ters of  the  town.  The  buildings  stood  insulated  and  in- 
dependent, not,  as  now,  merging  their  separate  existences 
into  connected  ranges,  with  a  front  of  tiresome  identity, 


EDWARD    RANDOLPH'S    PORTRAIT.  27 

but  each  possessing  features  of  its  own,  as  if  the  own- 
er's individual  taste  had  shaped  it,  and  the  whole  pre- 
senting a  picturesque  irregularity,  the  absence  of  which 
is  hardly  compensated  by  any  beauties  of  our  modern 
architecture.  Such  a  scene,  dimly  vanishing  from  the 
eye  by  the  ray  of  here  and  there  a  tallow  candle,  glim- 
mering through  the  small  panes  of  scattered  windows, 
would  form  a  sombre  contrast  to  the  street  as  I  beheld 
it,  with  the  gaslights  blazing  from  corner  to  corner,  flam- 
ing within  the  shops,  and  throwing  a  noonday  brightness 
through  the  huge  plates  of  glass. 

But  the  black,  lowering  sky,  as  I  turned  my  eyes 
upward,  wore,  doubtless,  the  same  visage  as  when  it 
frowned  upon  the  ante-Revolutionary  New-Euglauders. 
The  wintry  blast  had  the  same  shriek  that  was  familiar 
to  their  ears.  The  Old  South  Church,  too,  still  pointed 
its  antique  spire  into  the  darkness,  and  was  lost  between 
earth  and  heaven ;  and  as  I  passed,  its  clock,  which  had 
warned  so  many  generations  how  transitory  was  their 
lifetime,  spoke  heavily  and  slow  ths  sams  unregarded 
moral  to  myself.  "Only  seven  o'clock,"  thought  I. 
"My  old  friend's  legends  will  scarcely  kill  the  hours 
'twixt  this  and  bedtime." 

Passing  through  tha  narrow  arch,  I  crossed  the  court- 
yard, the  confined  precincts  of  which  were  made  visible 
by  a  lantern  over  the  portal  of  the  Province  House.  On 
entering  the  bar-room,  I  found,  as  I  expected,  the  old 
tradition-monger  seated  by  a  special  good  fire  of  anthra- 
cite, compelling  clouds  of  smoke  from  a  corpulent  cigar. 
He  recognized  me  with  evident  pleasure  ;  for  my  rare 
properties  as  a  patient  listener  invariably  make  me  a 
favorite  with  elderly  gentlemen  and  ladies  of  narrative 
propensities.  Drawing  a  chair  to  the  fire,  I  desired 
mine  host  to  favor  us  with  a  glass  apieco  of  whiskey 


2$  TWICE-TOLD    TALES. 

punch,  which  was  speedily  prepared,  steaming  hot,  with 
a  slice  of  lemon  at  the  bottom,  a  dark  red  stratum  of 
port  wine  upon  the  surface,  and  a  sprinkling  of  nutmeg 
strewn  over  all.  As  we  touched  our  glasses  together, 
my  legendary  friend  made  himself  known  to  me  as  Mr. 
Bela  Tiffany ;  and  I  rejoiced  at  the  oddity  of  the  name, 
because  it  gave  his  image  and  character  a  sort  of  individ- 
uality in  my  conception.  The  old  gentleman's  draught 
acted  as  a  solvent  upon  his  memory,  so  that  it  over- 
flowed with  tales,  traditions,  anecdotes  of  famous  dead 
people,  and  traits  of  ancient  manners,  some  of  which 
were  childish  as  a  nurse's  lullaby,  while  others  might 
have  been  worth  the  notice  of  the  grave  historian. 
Nothing  impressed  me  more  than  a  story  of  a  black  mys- 
terious picture,  which  used  to  hang  in  one  of  the  cham- 
bers of  the  Province  House,  directly  above  the  room 
where  we  were  now  sitting.  The  following  is  as  correct 
a  version  of  the  fact  as  the  reader  would  be  likely  to  ob- 
tain from  any  other  source,  although,  assuredly,  it  has  a 
tinge  of  romance  approaching  to  the  marvellous. 


In  one  of  the  apartments  of  the  Province  House  there 
was  long  preserved  an  ancient  picture,  the  frame  of 
which  was  as  black  as  ebony,  and  the  canvas  itself  so 
dark  with  age,  damp,  and  smoke,  that  not  a  touch  of  the 
painter's  art  could  be  discerned.  Time  had  thrown  %an 
impenetrable  veil  over  it,  and  left  to  tradition  and  fable 
and  conjecture  to  say  what  had  once  been  there  por- 
trayed. During  the  rule  of  many  successive  governors 
it  had  hung,  by  prescriptive  and  undisputed  right,  over 
the  mantel-piece  of  the  same  chamber ;  and  it  still  kept 
its  place  when  Lieuteuant-GDvernor  Hutchinson  assumed 


EDWARD    RANDOLPH'S    PORTRAIT.  29 

the  administration  of  the  province,  on  the  departure  of 
Sir  Francis  Bernard. 

The  Lieutenant-Governor  sat,  one  afternoon,  resting 
his  head  against  the  carved  back  of  his  stately  arm-chair, 
and  gazing  up  thoughtfully  at  the  void  blackness  of  the 
picture.  It  was  scarcely  a  time  for  such  inactive  musing, 
when  affairs  of  the  deepest  moment  required  the  ruler's 
decision ;  for,  within  that  very  hour,  Hutchinson  had  re- 
ceived intelligence  of  the  arrival  of  a  British  fleet,  bring- 
ing three  regiments  from  Halifax  to  overawe  the  in- 
subordination of  the  people.  These  troops  awaited  his 
permission  to  occupy  the  fortress  of  Castle  William  and 
the  town  itself.  Yet,  instead  of  affixing  his  signature  to 
an  official  order,  there  sat  the  Lieutenant-Governor,  so 
carefully  scrutinizing  the  black  waste  of  canvas,  that  his 
demeanor  attracted  the  notice  of  two  young  persons  who 
attended  him.  One,  wearing  a  military  dress  of  buff, 
was  his  kinsman,  Francis  Lincoln,  the  Provincial  Cap- 
tain of  Castle  William  ;  the  other,  who  sat  on  a  low  stool 
beside  his  chair,  was  Alice  Vane,  his  favorite  niece. 

She  was  clad  entirely  in  white,  a  pale,  ethereal  crea- 
ture, who,  though  a  native  of  New  England,  had  been 
educated  abroad,  and  seemed  not  merely  a  stranger  from 
another  clime,  but  almost  a  being  from  another  world. 
For  several  years,  until  left  an  orphan,  she  had  dwelt 
with  her  father  in  sunny  Italy,  and  there  had  acquired  a 
taste  and  enthusiasm  for  sculpture  and  painting,  which 
she  found  few  opportunities  of  gratifying  in  the  uudeco- 
rated  dwellings  of  the  colonial  gentry.  It  was  said  that 
the  early  productions  of  her  own  pencil  exhibited  no 
inferior  genius,  though,  perhaps,  the  rude  atmosphere  of 
New  England  had  cramped  her  hand,  and  dimmed  the 
glowing  colors  of  her  fancy.  But  observing  her  uncle's 
steadfast  gaze,  which  appeared  to  search  through  the  mist 


30  TWICE-TOLD    TALES. 

of  years  to  discover  the  subject  of  the  picture,  her  curi- 
osity was  excited. 

"  Is  it  known,  my  dear  uncle,"  inquired  she,  "  what 
this  old  picture  once  represented?  Possibly,  could  it 
be  made  visible,  it  might  prove  a  masterpiece  of  some 
great  artist;  else,  why  has  it  so  long  held  such  a  con- 
spicuous place  ?  " 

As  her  uncle,  contrary  to  his  usual  custom  (for  he 
was  as  attentive  to  all  the  humors  and  caprices  of 
Alice  as  if  she  had  been  his  own  best-beloved  child), 
did  not  immediately  reply,  the  young  captain  of  Castle 
WiUkun  took  that  office  upon  himself. 

"This  dark  old  square  of  canvas,  my  fair  cousin," 
said  he,  "  lias  been  an  heirloom  in  the  Province  House 
from  time  immemorial.  As  to  the  painter,  I  can  tell  you 
nothing ;  but  if  half  the  stories  told  of  it  be  true,  not 
one  of  the  great  Italian  masters  has  ever  produced  so 
marvellous  a  piece  of  work  as  that  before  you." 

Captain  Lincoln  proceeded  to  relate  some  of  the 
strange  fables  and  fantasies,  which,  as  it  was  impossible 
to  refute  them  by  ocular  demonstration,  had  grown  to 
be  articles  of  popular  belief,  in  reference  to  this  old 
picture.  One  of  the  wildest,  and  at  the  same  time  the 
best  accredited  accounts,  stated  it  to  be  an  original  and 
authentic  portrait  of  the  Evil  One,  taken  at  a  witch 
meeting  near  Salem;  and  that  its  strong  and  terrible 
resemblance  has  been  confirmed  by  several  of  the  con- 
fessing wizards  and  witches,  at  their  trial,  in  open  court. 
It  was  likewise  affirmed  that  a  familiar  spirit,  or  demon, 
abode  behind  the  blackness  of  the  picture,  and  had  shown 
himself,  at  seasons  of  public  calamity,  to  more  than  one 
of  the  royal  governors.  Shirley,  for  instance,  had  be- 
held this  ominous  apparition,  on  the  eve  of  General 
Abercrombie's  shameful  and  bloodv  defeat  under  the 


EDWARD   RANDOLPH'S    PORTRAIT.  31 

walls  of  Ticonderoga.  Many  of  the  servants  of  the 
Province  House  had  caught  glimpses  of  a  visage  frown- 
ing down  upon  them,  at  morning  or  evening  twilight, 
or  in  the  depths  of  night,  while  raking  up  the  fire  that 
glimmered  on  the  hearth  beneath  ;  although,  if  any  were 
bold  enough  to  hold  a  torch  before  the  picture,  it  would 
appear  as  black  and  undistinguishable  as  ever.  The  old- 
est inhabitant  of  Boston  recollected  that  his  father,  in 
whose  days  the  portrait  had  not  wholly  faded  out  of 
sight,  had  once  looked  upon  it,  but  would  never  suffer 
himself  to  be  questioned  as  to  the  face  which  was  there 
represented.  In  connection  with  such  stories,  it  was 
remarkable  that  over  the  top  of  the  frame  there  were 
some  ragged  remnants  of  black  silk,  indicating  that  a 
veil  had  formerly  hung  down  before  the  picture,  until 
the  duskiness  of  time  had  so  effectually  concealed  it. 
But,  after  all,  it  was  the  most  singular  part  of  the  affair, 
that  so  many  of  the  pompous  governors  of  Massachu- 
setts had  allowed  the  obliterated  picture  to  remain  in 
the  state  chamber  of  the  Province  House. 

"  Some  of  these  fables  are  really  awful,"  observed 
Alice  Vane,  who  had  occasionally  shuddered,  as  well  as 
smiled,  while  her  cousin  spoke.  "It  would  be  almost 
worth  while  to  wipe  away  the  black  surface  of  the 
canvas,  since  the  original  picture  can  hardly  be  so  for- 
midable as  those  which  fancy  paints  instead  of  it." 

"  But  would  it  be  possible,"  inquired  her  cousin,  "  to 
restore  this  dark  picture  to  its  pristine  hues  ?  " 

"  Such  arts  are  Known  in  Italy,"  said  Alice. 

The  Lieutenant-Governor  had  roused  himself  from 
his  abstracted  mood,  and  listened  with  a  smile  to  the 
conversation  of  his  young  relatives.  Yet  his  voice  had 
something  peculiar  in  its  tones,  when  he  undertook  the 
explanation  of  the  mystery. 


32  TWICE-TOLD    TALES. 

"  I  am  sorry,"  Alice,  to  destroy  your  faith  in  the 
legends  of  which  you  are  so  fond,"  remarked  he ;  "  but 
my  antiquarian  researches  have  long  since  made  me 
acquainted  with  the  subject  of  this  picture,  — if  picture 
it  can  be  called, — which  is  no  more  visible,  nor  ever 
will  be,  than  the  face  of  the  long-buried  man  whom  it 
once  represented.  It  was  the  portrait  of  Edward  Ran- 
dolph, the  founder  of  this  house,  a  person  famous  in 
the  history  of  New  England." 

"  Of  that  Edward  Randolph,"  exclaimed  Captain  Lin- 
coln, "  who  obtained  the  repeal  of  the  first  provincial 
charter,  under  which  our  forefathers  had  enjoyed  almost 
democratic  privileges!  He  that  was  styled  the  arch- 
enemy of  New  England,  and  whose  memory  is  still  held 
in  detestation,  as  the  destroyer  of  our  liberties !  " 

"  It  was  the  same  Randolph,"  answered  Hutchinson, 
moving  uneasily  in  his  chair.  "  It  was  his  lot  to  taste 
the  bitterness  of  popular  odium." 

"Our  annals  tell  us,"  continued  the  Captain  of  Cas- 
tle William,  "  that  the  curse  of  the  people  followed  this 
Randolph  where  he  went,  and  wrought  evil  in  all  the 
subsequent  events  of  his  life,  and  that  its  effect  was 
seen  likewise  in  the  manner  of  his  death.  They  say, 
too,  that  the  inward  misery  of  that  curse  worked  itself 
outward,  and  was  visible  on  the  wretched  man's  coun- 
tenance, making  it  too  horrible  to  be  looked  upon.  If 
so,  and  if  this  picture  truly  represented  his  aspect,  it 
was  in  mercy  that  the  cloud  of  blackness  has  gathered 
over  it." 

"These  traditions  are  folly,  to  one  who  has  proved, 
as  I  have,  how  little  of  historic  truth  lies  at  the  bottom," 
said  the  Lieutenant-Governor.  "  As  regards  the  life  and 
character  of  Edward  Randolph,  too  implicit  credence  has 
been  given  to  Dr.  Cotton  Mather,  who  —  I  must  say  it, 


EDWARD    RANDOLPH'S    PORTRAIT.  33 

though  some  of  his  blood  runs  in  my  veins  —  has  filled 
our  early  history  with  old  women's  tales,  as  fanciful  and 
extravagant  as  those  of  Greece  or  Rome." 

"  And  yet,"  whispered  Alice  Vane,  "  may  not  such 
fables  have  a  moral  ?  And,  methinks, .  if  the  visage 
of  this  portrait  be  so  dreadful,  it  is  not  without  a 
cause  that  it  has  hung  so  long  in  a  chamber  of  the 
Province  House.  When  the  rulers  feel  themselves  irre- 
sponsible, it  were  well  that  they  should  be  reminded  of 
the  awful  weight  of  a  people's  curse." 

The  Lieutenant-Governor  started,  and  gazed  for  a  mo- 
ment at  his  niece,  as  if  her  girlish  fantasies  had  struck 
upon  some  feeling  in  his  own  breast,  which  all  his  pol- 
icy or  principles  could  not  entirely  subdue.  He  knew, 
indeed,  that  Alice,  in  spite  of  her  foreign  education, 
retained  the  native  sympathies  of  a  New  England  girl. 

"Peace,  silly  child,"  cried  he,  at  last,  more  harshly 
than  he  had  ever  before  addressed  the  gentle  Alice. 
"  The  rebuke  of  a  king  is  more  to  be  dreaded  than  the 
clamor  of  a  wild,  misguided  multitude.  Captain  Lincoln, 
it  is  decided.  The  fortress  of  Castle  William  must  b? 
occupied  by  the  Royal  troops.  The  two  remaining  regi- 
ments shall  be  billeted  in  the  town,  or  encamped  upon 
the  Common.  It  is  time,  after  years  of  tumult,  and 
almost  rebellion,  that  his  Majesty's  government  should 
have  a  wall  of  strength  about  it." 

"  Trust,  sir,  —  trust  yet  awhile  to  the  loyalty  of  the 
people,"  said  Captain  Lincoln ;  "  nor  teach  them  that 
they  can  ever  be*on  other  terms  with  British  soldiers 
than  those  of  brotherhood,  as  when  they  fought  side  by 
side  through  the  French  war.  Do  not  convert  the  streets 
of  your  native  town  into  a  camp.  Think  twice  before  you 
give  up  old  Castle  William,  the  key  of  the  province,  into 
other  keeping  than  that  of  true-bom  New-Englanders." 
2*  c 


84  TWICE-TOLD    TALES. 

"Young  man,  it  is  decided,"  repeated  Hutcliinson, 
rising  from  his  chair.  "  A  British  officer  will  be  in 
attendance  this  evening  to  receive  the  necessary  instruc- 
tions for  the  disposal  of  the  troops.  Your  presence  also 
•will  be  required.  Till  then,  farewell." 

With  these  words  the  Lieutenant -Governor  hastily  left 
the  room,  while  Alice  and  her  cousin  more  slowly  fol- 
lowed, whispering  together,  and  once  pausing  to  glance 
back  at  the  mysterious  picture.  The  Captain  of  Castle 
William  fancied  that  the  girl's  air  and  mien  were  such  as 
might  have  belonged  to  one  of  those  spirits  of  fable  — 
fairies,  or  creatures  of  a  more  antique  mythology  —  who 
sometimes  mingled  their  agency  with  mortal  atfairs,  half 
in  caprice,  yet  with  a  sensibility  to  human  weal  or  woe. 
As  he  held  the  door  for  her  to  pass,  Alice  beckoned  to 
the  picture  and  smiled. 

"Come  forth,  dark  and  evil  Shape  !  "  cried  she.  "It 
is  thine  hour!  " 

In  the  evening,  Lieutenant-Governor  Hutcliinson  sat 
iu  the  same  chamber  Avhere  the  foregoing  scene  had 
occurred,  surrounded  by  several  persons  whose  various 
interests  had  summoned  them  together.  There  were  the 
Selectmen  of  Boston,  plain,  patriarchal  fathers  of  the 
people,  excellent  represantatives  of  the  old  puritanical 
founders,  whose  sombre  strength  had  stamped  so  deep 
an  impress  upon  the  New  England  character.  Contrast- 
ing with  these  were  one  or  two  members  of  Council, 
richly  dressed  in  the  white  wigs,  the  embroidered  waist- 
coats, and  other  magnificence  of  the  time,  and  making  a 
somewhat  ostentatious  display  of  courtier-like  ceremonial. 
In  attendance,  likewise,  was  a  major  of  the  British  army, 
awaiting  the  Lieutenant-Governor's  orders  for  the  land- 
ing of  the  troops,  which  still  remained  on  board  the 
transports.  The  Captain  of  Castle  William  stood  beside 


EDWARD    RANDOLPH'S    PORTRAIT.  '  35 

Hutchinson's  chair,  with  folded  arms,  glancing  rather 
haughtily  at  the  British  officer,  by  whom  he  was  soon  to 
b«3  superseded  in  his  command.  On  a  table,  in  the  cen- 
tre of  the  chamber,  stood  a  branched  silver  candlestick, 
throwing  down  the  glow  of  half  a  dozen  wax-lights  upon 
a  paper  apparently  ready  for  the  Lieutenant-Governor's 
signature. 

Partly  shrouded  in  the  voluminous  folds  of  one  of  the 
window-curtains,  which  fell  from  the  ceiling  to  the  floor, 
was  seen  the  white  drapery  of  a  lady's  robe.  It  may 
appear  strange  that  Alice  Vane  should  have  been  there, 
at  such  a  time ;  but  there  was  something  so  childlike,  so 
wayward,  in  her  singular  character,  so  apart  from  ordi- 
nary rules,  that  her  presence  did  not  surprise  the  few  who 
noticed  it.  Meantime,  the  chairman  of  the  Selectmen 
Avas  addressing  to  the  Lieutenant-Governor  a  long  and 
solemn  protest  against  the  reception  of  the  British  troops 
into  the  town.. 

"And  if  your  Honor,"  concluded  this  excellent  but 
somewhat  prosy  old  gentleman,  "  shall  see  fit  to  persist 
in  bringing  these  mercenary  sworders  and  musketeers 
into  our  quiet  streets,  not  on  our  heads  be  the  responsi- 
bility. Think,  sir,  while  there  is  yet  time,  that  if  one 
drop  of  blood  be  shed,  that  blood  shall  be  an  eternal 
stain  upon  your  Honor's  memory.  You,  sir,  have  writ- 
ten, with  an  able  pen,  the  deeds  of  our  forefathers.  The 
more  to  be  desired  is  it,  therefore,  that  yourself  should 
deserve  honorable  mention,  as  a  true  patriot  and  upright 
ruler,  when  your  *own  doings  shall  be  written  down  in 
history." 

"I  am  not  insensible,  my  good  sir,  to  the  natural  de- 
sire to  stand  well  in  the  annals  of  my  country,"  replied 
Hutchiiison,  controlling  his  impatience  into  courtesy, 
"  nor  know  I  any  better  mathod  of  attaining  that  end 


30  TWICE-TOLD    TALES. 

than  by  withstanding  the  merely  temporary  spirit  of 
mischief,  which,  with  your  pardon,  seems  to  have  infected 
elder  men  than  myself.  Would  you  have  me  wait  till 
the  mob  shall  sack  the  Province  House,  as  they  did  my 
private  mansion?  Trust  me,  sir,  the  time  may  come 
when  you  will  be  glad  to  flee  for  protection  to  the  King's 
banner,  the  raising  of  which  is  now  so  distasteful  to  you." 

"Yes,"  said  the  British  major,  who  was  impatiently 
expecting  the  Lieutenant-Governor's  orders.  "  The  dem- 
agogues of  this  province  have  raised  the  devil,  and  cannot 
lay  him  again.  We  will  exorcise  him,  in  God's  name 
and  the  King's." 

"  If  you  meddle  with  the  Devil,  take  care  of  his  claws  ! " 
answered  the  Captain  of  Castle  William,  stirred  by  the 
taunt  against  his  countrymen. 

"  Craving  your  pardon,  young  sir,"  said  the  venerable 
Selectman,  "  let  not  an  evil  spirit  enter  into  your  words. 
We  will  strive  against  the  oppressor  with  prayer  and 
fasting,  as  our  forefathers  would  have  done.  Like  them, 
moreover,  we  will  submit  to  whatever  lot  a  wise  Provi- 
dence may  send  us,  —  always,  after  our  own  best  exer- 
tions to  amend  it." 

"And  there  peep  forth  the  Devil's  claws!  "  muttered 
Hutchinson,  who  well  understood  the  nature  of  Puritan 
submission.  "  This  matter  shall  be  expedited  forthwith. 
When  there  shall  be  a  sentinel  at  every  corner,  and  a 
court  of  guard  before  the  town-house,  a  loyal  gentleman 
may  venture  to  walk  abroad.  What  to  me  is  the  outcry 
of  a  mob,  in  this  remote  province  of  the  realm  ?  The 
King  is  my  master,  and  England  is  my  country  !  Upheld 
by  their  armed  strength,  I  set  my  foot  upon  the  rabble, 
and  defy  them  !  " 

He  snatched  a  pen,  and  was  about  to  affix  his  signature 
to  the  paper  that  lay  on  the  table,  when  the  Captain  of 


EDWARD   RANDOLPH'S    PORTRAIT.  37 

Castle  William  placed  his  hand  upon  his  shoulder.  The 
freedom  of  the  action,  so  contrary  to  the  ceremonious 
respect  which  was  then  considered  due  to  rank  and  dig- 
nity, awakened  general  surprise,  and  in  none  more  than 
in  the  Lieutenant-Governor  himself.  Looking  angrily 
up,  he  perceived  that  his  young  relative  was  pointing  his 
finger  to  the  opposite  wall.  Hutchinson's  eye  followed 
the  signal ;  and  he  saw,  what  had  hitherto  been  unob- 
served, that  a  black  silk  curtain  was  suspended  before 
the  mysterious  picture,  so  as  completely  to  conceal  it. 
His  thoughts  immediately  recurred  to  the  scene  of  the  pre- 
ceding afternoon ;  and,  in  his  surprise,  confused  by  indis- 
tinct emotions,  yet  sensible  that  his  niece  must  have  had 
an  agency  in  this  phenomenon,  he  called  loudly  upon  her. 

"  Alice  !  —  come  hither,  Alice  !  " 

No  sooner  had  he  spoken  than  Alice  Vane  glided  from 
her  station,  and  pressing  one  hand  across  her  eyes,  with 
the  other  snatched  away  the  sable  curtain  that  concealed 
the  portrait.  An  exclamation  of  surprise  burst  from 
every  beholder ;  but  the  Lieutenant-Governor's  voice  had 
a  tone  of  horror. 

"By  Heaven,"  said  he,  in  a  low,  inward  murmur, 
speaking  rather  to  himself  than  to  those  around  him,  "  if 
the  spirit  of  Edward  Randolph  were  to  appear  among  us 
from  the  place  of  torment,  he  could  not  wear  more  of  the 
terrors  of  hell  upon  his  face  !  " 

"For  some  wise  end,"  said  the  aged  Selectman,  sol- 
emnly, "  hath  Providence  scattered  away  the  mist  of  years 
that  had  so  long  nid  this  dreadful  effigy.  Until  this  hour 
no  living  man  hath  seen  what  we  behold !  " 

Within  the  antique  frame,  which  so  recently  had  en- 
closed a  sable  waste  of  canvas,  now  appeared  a  visible 
picture,  still  dark,  indeed,  in  its  hues  and  shadings,  but 
thrown  forward  in  strong  relief.  It  was  a  half-length 


38  TWICE-TOLD    TALES. 

figure  of  a  gentleman  in  a  rich,  but  very  old-fashioned 
dress  of  embroidered  velvet,  with  a  broad  ruff  and  a 
beard,  and  wearing  a  hat,  the  brim  of  which  over- 
shadowed  his  forehead.  Beneath  this  cloud  the  eyes  had 
a  peculiar  glare  which  was  almost  life-like.  The  whole 
portrait  started  so  distinctly  out  of  the  background,  that 
it  had  the  effect  of  a  person  looking  down  from  the  wall 
at  the  astonished  and  awe-stricken  spectators.  The  ex- 
pression of  the  face,  if  any  words  can  convey  an  idea  of  it, 
was  that  of  a  wretch  detected  in  some  hideous  guilt,  and 
exposed  to  the  bitter  hatred  and  laughter  and  withering 
scorn  of  a  vast  surrounding  multitude.  There  was  the 
struggle  of  defiance,  beaten  down  and  overwhelmed  by 
the  crushing  weight  of  ignominy.  The  torture  of  the 
soul  had  come  forth  upon  the  countenance.  It  seemed 
as  if  the  picture,  while  hidden  behind  the  cloud  of  imme- 
morial years,  had  been  all  the  time  acquiring  an  intenser 
depth  and  darkness  of  expression,  till  now  it  gloomed 
forth  again,  and  threw  its  evil  omen  over  the  present 
hour.  Such,  if  the  wild  legend  may  be  credited,  was  the 
portrait  of  Edward  Randolph,  as  he  appeared  -when  a 
people's  curse  had  wrought  its  influence  upon  his  nature. 

"  'T  would  drive  me  mad,  —  that  awful  face  !  "  said 
Hutchinson,  who  seemed  fascinated  by  the  contemplation 
of  it, 

"  Be  warned,  then  !  "  whispered  Alice.  "  He  trampled 
on  a  people's  rights.  Behold  his  punishment,  —  and  avoid 
a  crime  like  his  !  " 

The  Lieut  enant -Governor  actually  trembled  for  an  in- 
stant ;  but,  exerting  his  energy, — which  was  not,  how- 
ever, his  most  characteristic  feature,  —  he  strove  to  shake 
off  the  spell  of  Randolph's  countenance. 

"  Girl !  "  cried  he,  laughing  bitterly,  as  he  turned  to 
Alice,  "  have  you  brought  hither  your  painter's  art,  — 


EDWARD    RANDOLPH'S    PORTRAIT.  39 

your  Italian  spirit  of  intrigue,  — your  tricks  of  stage  effect, 
—  and  think  to  influence  the  councils  of  rulers  and  the 
affairs  of  nations  by  such  shallow  contrivances  ?  See 
here ! " 

"  Stay  yet  awhile,"  said  the  Selectman,  as  Hutchinson 
again  snatched  the  pen;  "for  if  ever  mortal  man  re- 
ceived a  warning  from  a  tormented  soul,  your  Honor  is 
that  man !  " 

"  Away  !  "  answered  Hutchinson,  fiercely.  "  Though 
yonder  senseless  picture  cried,  '  Forbear ! '  it  should  not 
move  me !  " 

Casting  a  scowl  of  defiance  at  the  pictured  face  (which 
seemed,  at  that  moment,  to  intensify  the  horror  of  its 
miserable  and  wicked  look),  he  scrawled  on  the  paper, 
in  characters  that  betokened  it  a  deed  of  desperation, 
the  name  of  Thomas  Hutchinsou.  Then,  it  is  said,  he 
shuddered,  as  if  that  signature  had  granted  away  his  sal- 
vation. 

"  It  is  done,"  said  he ;  and  placed  his  hand  upon  his 
brow. 

"May  Heaven  forgive  the  deed,"  said  the  soft,  sad  ac- 
cents of  Alice  Vane,  like  the  voice  of  a  good  spirit  flitting 
away. 

When  morning  came  there  was  a  stifled  whisper 
through  the  household,  and  spreading  thence  about  the 
town,  that  the  dark,  mysterious  picture  had  started  from 
the  wall,  and  spoken  face  to  face  with  Lieutenant-Gov- 
ernor Hutchiuson^  If  such  a  miracle  had  been  wrought, 
however,  no  traces  of  it  remained  behind ;  for  within  the 
antique  frame,  nothing  could  be  discerned,  save  the  im- 
penetrable cloud  which  had  covered  the  canvas  since  the 
memory  of  man.  If  the  figure  had,  indeed,  stepped  forth, 
it  had  fled  back,  spirit-like,  at  the  daydawn,  and  hidden 
itself  behind  a  century's  obscurity.  The  truth  probably 


40  TWICE-TOLD   TALES. 

was,  that  Alice  Vane's  secret  for  restoring  the  hues  of 
the  picture  had  merely  effected  a  temporary  renovation. 
But  those  who,  in  that  brief  interval,  had  beheld  the  aw- 
ful visage  of  Edward  Randolph,  desired  no  second  glance, 
and  ever  afterwards  trembled  at  the  recollection  of  the 
scene,  as  if  an  evil  spirit  hud  appeared  visibly  among 
them.  And  as  for  Hutchiuson,  when,  far  over  the  ocean, 
his  dying  hour  drew  on,  he  gasped  for  breath,  and  com- 
plained that  he  was  choking  with  the  blood  of  the  Boston 
massacre  ;  and  Francis  Lincoln,  the  former  Captain  of 
Castle  William,  who  was  standing  at  his  bedside,  per- 
ceived a  likeness  in  his  frenzied  look  to  that  of  Edward 
Randolph.  Did  his  broken  spirit  feel,  at  that  dread  hour, 
the  tremendous  burden  of  a  People's  curse  ? 


At  the  conclusion  of  this  miraculous  legend,  I  inquired 
of  mine  host  whether  the  picture  still  remained  in  the 
chamber  over  our  heads ;  but  Mr.  Tiffany  informed  me 
that  it  had  long  since  been  removed,  and  was  supposed 
to  be  hidden  in  some  out-of-the-way  corner  of  the  New 
England  Museum.  Perchance  some  curious  antiquary 
may  light  upon  it  there,  and,  with  the  assistance  of  Mr. 
Howorth,  the  picture-cleaner,  may  supply  a  not  unneces- 
sary proof  of  the  authenticity  of  the  facts  here  set  down. 
During  the  progress  of  the  story  a  storm  had  been  gath- 
ering abroad,  and  raging  and  rattling  so  loudly  in  the 
upper  regions  of  the  Province  House,  that  it  seemed  as 
if  all  the  old  governors  and  great  men  were  running  riot 
above  stairs,  while  Mr.  Bela  Tiffany  babbled  of  them 
below.  In  the  course  of  generations,  when  many  people 
have  lived  and  died  in  an  ancient  house,  the  whistling  of 
the  wind  through  its  crannies,  and  the  creaking  of  its 


EDWARD    RANDOLPH'S    PORTRAIT.  41 

beams  and  rafters,  become  strangely  like  the  tones  of  the 
human  voice,  or  thundering  laughter,  or  heavy  footsteps 
treading  the  deserted  chambers.  It  is  as  if  the  echoes 
of  half  a  century  were  revived.  Such  were  the  ghostly 
sounds  that  roared  and  murmured  in  our  ears,  when  I 
took  leave  of  the  circle  round  the  fireside  of  the  Province 
House,  and  plunging  down  the  doorsteps,  fought  my 
way  homeward  against  a  drifting  snow-storm.  . 


LEGENDS  OF  THE  PROVINCE  HOUSE. 


III. 
LADY  ELEANOEE'S  MANTLE. 

IIS'E  excellent,  friend,  the  landlord  of  the  Province 
House,  was  pleased,  the  other  evening,  to  invite 
Mr.  Tiffany  and  myself  to  an  oyster-supper. 
This  slight  mark  of  respect  and  gratitude,  as  he  hand- 
somely observed,  was  far  less  than  the  ingenious  tale- 
teller, and  I,  the  humble  note-taker  of  his  narratives,  had 
fairly  earned,  by  the  public  notice  which  our  joint  lucu- 
brations had  attracted  to  his  establishment.  Many  a 
cigar  had  been  smoked  within  his  premises,  —  many  a 
glass  of  wine,  or  more  potent  aqua  vita?,  had  been  quaffed, 
—  many  a  dinner  had  been  eaten  by  curious  strangers, 
who,  save  for  the  fortunate  conjunction  of  Mr.  Tiffany 
and  me,  would  never  have  ventured  through  that  dark- 
some avenue,  which  gives  access  to  the  historic  precincts 
of  the  Province  House.  In  short,  if  any  credit  be  due 
to  the  courteous  assurances  of  Mr.  Thomas  Waite,  we 
had  brought  his  forgotten  mansion  almost  as  effectually 
into  public  view  as  if  we  had  thrown  down  the  vulgar 
range  of  shoe-shops  and  dry-goods  stores,  which  hides  its 
aristocratic  front  from  Washington  Street.  It  may  be 


LADY    ELEANORE'S    MANTLE.  43 

unadvisable,  however,  to  speak  too  loudly  of  the  in- 
creased custom  of  the  house,  lest  Mr.  Waite  should  find 
it  difficult  to  renew  the  lease  on  so  favorable  terms  as 
heretofore. 

Being  thus  welcomed  as  benefactors,  neither  Mr.  Tiffany 
nor  myself  felt  any  scruple  in  doing  full  justice  to  the  good 
things  that  were  set  before  us.  If  the  feast  were  less 
magnificent  than  those  same  panelled  walls  had  witnessed 
in  a  bygone  century,  —  if  mine  host  presided  with  some- 
what less  of  state,  than  might  have  befitted  a  successor  of 
the  royal  governors,  —  if  the  guests  made  a  less  imposing 
show  than  the  bewigged  and  powdered  and  embroidered 
dignitaries,  who  erst  banqueted  at  the  gubernatorial  table, 
and  now  sleep  within  their  armorial  tombs  on  Copp's 
Hill  or  round  King's  Chapel,  — yet  never,  I  may  boldly 
say,  did  a  more  comfortable  little  party  assemble  in  the 
Province  House,  from  Queen  Anne's  days  to  the  Revo- 
lution. The  occasion  was  rendered  more  interesting  by 
the  presence  of  a  venerable  personage,  whose  own  actual 
reminiscences  went  back  to  the  epoch  of  Gage  and  Howe, 
and  even  supplied  him  with  a  doubtful  anecdote  or  two 
of  Hutchiiison.  He  was  one  of  that  small,  and  now  all 
but  extinguished  class,  whose  attachment  to  royalty,  and 
to  the  colonial  institutions  and  customs  that  were  con- 
nected with  it,  had  never  yielded  to  the  democratic  here- 
sies of  after  times.  The  young  queen  of  Britain  has  not 
a  more  loyal  subject  in  her  realm  —  perhaps  not  one  who 
would  kneel  before  her  throne  with  such  reverential  love 
—  than  this  old*grandsire,  whose  head  has  whitened  be- 
neath the  mild  sway  of  the  Republic,  which  still,  in  his  mel- 
lower moments,  he  terms  a  usurpation.  Yet  prejudices 
so  obstinate  have  not  made  him  an  ungentle  or  impracti- 
cable companion.  If  the  truth  must  be  told,  the  life  of 
the  aged  loyalist  has  been  of  such  a  scrambling  and  un- 


44  TWICE-TOLD    TALES. 

settled  character,  —  he  has  had  so  little  choice  of  friends, 
and  been  so  often  destitute  of  any,  —  that  I  doubt  whether 
he  would  refuse  a  cup  of  kindness  with  either  Oliver 
Cromwell  or  John  Hancock ;  to  say  nothing  of  any  demo- 
crat now  upon  the  stage.  In  another  paper  of  this  series, 
I  may  perhaps  give  the  reader  a  closer  glimpse  of  his 
portrait. 

Our  host,  in  due  season,  uncorked  a  bottle  of  Madeira, 
of  such  exquisite  perfume  and  admirable  flavor,  that  he 
surely  must  have  discovered  it  in  an  ancient  bin,  down 
deep  beneath  the  deepest  cellar,  where  some  jolly  old 
butler  stored  away  the  Governor's  choicest  wine,  and 
forgot  to  reveal  the  secret  on  his  death-bed.  Peace  to 
his  red-nosed  ghost,  and  a  libation  to  his  memory  !  This 
precious  liquor  was  imbibed  by  Mr.  Tiffany  with  peculiar 
zest ;  and  after  sipping  the  third  glass,  it  was  his  pleasure 
to  give  us  one  of  the  oddest  legends  which  he  had  yet 
raked  from  the  storehouse  where  he  keeps  such  matters. 
With  some  suitable  adornments  from  my  own  fancy,  it 
ran  pretty  much  as  follows. 


Not  long  after  Colonel  Shute  had  assumed  the  govern- 
ment of  Massachusetts  Bay,  now  nearly  a  hundred  and 
twenty  years  ago,  a  young  lady  of  rank  and  fortune  ar- 
rived from  England,  to  claim  his  protection  as  her  guar- 
dian. He  was  her  distant  relative,  but  the  nearest  who 
had  survived  the  gradual  extinction  of  her  family ;  so 
that  no  more  eligible  shelter  could  be  found  for  the  rich 
and  high-born  Lady  Eleanore  Rochcliffe,  than  within  the 
Province  House  of  a  Transatlantic  colony.  The  consort 
of  Governor  Shute,  moreover,  had  been  as  a  mother  to 
her  childhood,  and  was  now  anxious  to  receive  her,  in  the 


LADY    ELEANORE'S    MANTLE.  45 

hope  that  a  beautiful  young  woman  would  be  exposed  to 
infinitely  less  peril  from  the  primitive  society  of  New 
England,  than  amid  the  artifices  and  corruptions  of  a 
court.  If  either  the  Governor  or  his  lady  had  especially 
consulted  their  own  comfort,  they  would  probably  have 
sought  to  devolve  the  responsibility  on  other  hands  ; 
since  with  some  noble  and  splendid  traits  of  character, 
Lady  Eleanore  was  remarkable  for  a  harsh,  unyielding 
pride,  a  haughty  consciousness  of  her  hereditary  and 
personal  advantages,  which  made  her  almost  incapable  of 
control.  Judging  from  many  traditionary  anecdotes,  this 
peculiar  temper  was  hardly  less  than  a  monomania ;  or, 
if  the  acts  which  it  inspired  were  those  of  a  sane  person, 
it  seemed  due  from  Providence  that  pride  so  sinful  should 
be  followed  by  as  severe  a  retribution.  That  tinge  of  the 
marvellous,  which  is  thrown  over  so  many  of  these  half- 
forgotten  legends,  has  probably  imparted  an  additional 
wildness  to  the  strange  story  of  Lady  Eleanore  Roch- 
cliffe. 

The  ship  in  which  she  came  passenger  had  arrived  at 
Newport,  whence  Lady  Eleanore  was  conveyed  to  Boston 
in  the  Governor's  coach,  attended  by  a  small  escort  of 
gentlemen  on  horseback.  The  ponderous  equipage,  with 
its  four  black  horses,  attracted  much  notice  as  it  rumbled 
through  Cornhill,  surrounded  by  the  prancing  steeds  of 
half  a  dozen  cavaliers,  with  swords  dangling  to  their  stir- 
rups and  pistols  at  their  holsters.  Through  the  large 
glass  windows  of  the  coach,  as  it  rolled  along,  the  people 
could  discern  the  figure  of  Lady  Eleanore,  strangely  com- 
bining an  almost  queenly  stateliness  with  the  grace  and 
beauty  of  a  maiden  in  her  teens.  A  singular  tale  had 
gone  abroad  among  the  ladies  of  the  province,  that  their 
fair  rival  was  indebted  for  much  of  the  irresistible  charm 
of  her  appearance  to  a  certain  article  of  dress,  — an  em- 


46  TWICE-TOLD    TALES. 

broidered  mantle,  —  which  had  been  wrought  by  the  most 
skilful  artist  in  London,  and  possessed  even  magical  prop- 
erties of  adornment.  On  the  present  occasion,  however, 
she  owed  nothing  to  the  witchery  of  dress,  being  clad  in 
a  riding-habit  of  velvet,  which  would  have  appeared  stiff 
and  ungraceful  on  any  other  form. 

The  coachman  reined  in  his  four  black  steeds,  and  Ihe 
whole  cavalcade  came  to  a  pause  in  front  of  the  contorted 
iron  balustrade  that  fenced  the  Province  House  from  the 
public  street.  It  was  an  awkward  coincidence,  that  the 
bell  of  the  Old  South  was  just  then  tolling  for  a  funeral ; 
so  that,  instead  of  a  gladsome  peal  with  which  it  \vas 
customary  to  announce  the  arrival  of  distinguished 
strangers,  Lady  Eleanore  Rochcliffe  was  ushered  by  a 
doleful  clang,  as  if  calamity  had  come  embodied  in  her 
beautiful  person. 

"  A  very  great  disrespect !  "  exclaimed  Captain  Lang- 
ford,  an  English  officer,  who  had  recently  brought  de- 
spatches to  Governor  Shute.  "  The  funeral  should  have 
been  deferred,  lest  Lady  Eleanore.'s  spirits  be  affected  by 
such  a  dismal  welcome." 

"  With  your  pardon,  sir,"  replied  Dr.  Clarke,  a  physi- 
cian, and  a  famous  champion  of  the  popular  party, 
"  whatever  the  heralds  may  pretend,  a  dead  beggar  must 
have  precedence  of  a  living  queen.  King  Death  confers 
high  privileges." 

These  remarks  were  interchanged  while  the  speakers^ 
waited  a  passage  through  the  crowd,  which  had  gathered 
on  eacli  side  of  the  gateway,  leaving  an  open  avenue  to 
the  portal  of  the  Province  House.  A  black  slave  in  liv- 
ery now  leaped  from  behind  the  coach,  and  threw  open 
the  door ;  while  at  the  same  moment  Governor  Shute 
descended  the  flight  of  steps  from  his  mansion,  to  assist 
Lady  Eleanore  in  alighting.  But  the  Governor's  stately 


LADY    ELEANORE'S    MANTLE.  47 

approach  was  anticipated  in  a  manner  that  excited  gen- 
eral astonishment.  A  pale  young  man,  with  his  black 
hair  all  in  disorder,  rushed  from  the  throng,  and  pros- 
trated himself  beside  the  coach,  thus  offering  his  person 
as  a  footstool  for  Lady  Eleanore  Rochcliffe  to  tread 
upon.  She  held  back  an  instant ;  yet  with  an  expres- 
sion as  if  doubting  whether  the  young  man  were  worthy 
to  bear  the  weight  of  her  footstep,  rather  than  dissatis- 
fied to  receive  such  awful  reverence  from  a  fellow- 
mortal. 

"Up,  sir,"  said  the  Governor,  sternly,  at  the  same 
time  lifting  his  cane  over  the  intruder.  "  What  means 
the  Bedlamite  by  this  freak  ?  " 

"  Nay,"  answered  Lady  Eleanore,  playfully,  but  with 
more  scorn  than  pity  in  her  tone,  "  your  Excellency  shall 
not  strike  him.  When  men  seek  only  to  be  trampled 
upon,  it  were  a  pity  to  deny  them  a  favor  so  easily 
granted  —  and  so  well  deserved  !  " 

Then,  though  as  lightly  as  a  sunbeam  on  a  cloud,  she 
placed  her  foot  upon  the  cowering  form,  and  extended  her 
hand  to  meet  that  of  the  Governor.  There  was  a  brief 
interval,  during  which  Lady  Eleanore  retained  this  atti- 
tude ;  and  never,  surely,  was  there  an  apter  emblem  of 
aristocracy  and  hereditary  pride  trampling  on  human 
sympathies  and  the  kindred  of  nature,  than  these  two 
figures  presented  at  that  moment.  Yet  the  spectators 
were  so  smitten  with  her  beauty,  and  so  essential  did 
pride  seem  to  the  existence  of  such  a  creature,  that  they 
gave  a  simultaneous  acclamation  of  applause. 

"  Who  is  this  insolent  young  fellow  ?  "  inquired  Cap- 
tain Langford,  who  still  remained  beside  Dr.  Clarke. 
"  If  he  be  in  his  senses,  his  impertinence  demands  the 
bastinado.  If  mad,  Lady  Eleanore  should  be  secured 
from  further  inconvenience,  by  his  confinement." 


48  TWICE-TOLD   TALES. 

"  His  name  is  Jervase  Helwyse,"  answered  the  Doc- 
tor ;  "  a  youth  of  no  birth  or  fortune,  or  other  advan- 
tages, save  the  mind  and  soul  that  nature  gave  him; 
and  being  secretary  to  our  colonial  agent  in  London,  it 
was  his  misfortune  to  meet  this  Lady  Eleanore  lloch- 
cliffe.  He  loved  her,  —  and  her  scorn  has  driven  him 
mad." 

"He  was  mad  so  to  aspire,"  observed  the  English 
officer. 

"It  may  be  so,"  said  Dr.  Clarke,  frowning  as  he 
spoke.  "But  I  tell  you,  sir,  I  could  wellnigh  doubt  the 
justice  of  the  Heaven  above  us,  if  no  signal  humiliation 
overtake  this  lady,  who  now  treads  so  haughtily  into 
yonder  mansion.  She  seeks  to  place  herself  above  the 
sympathies  of  our  common  nature,  which  envelops  all 
human  souls.  See,  if  that  nature  do  not  assert  its  claim 
over  her  in  some  mode  that  shall  bring  her  level  with 
the  lowest !  " 

"  Never !  "  cried  Captain  Langford,  indignantly ;  "  nei- 
ther in  life,  nor  when  they  lay  her  with  her  ances- 
tors." 

Not  many  days  afterwards  the  Governor  gave  a  ball 
in  honor  of  Lady  Eleanore  Rochcliffe.  The  principal 
gentry  of  the  colony  received  invitations,  which  were 
distributed  to  their  residences,  far  and  near,  by  messen- 
gers on  horseback,  bearing  missives  sealed  with  all  the 
formality  of  official  despatches.  In  obedience  to  the 
summons,  there  was  a  general  gathering  of  rank,  wealth, 
and  beauty ;  and  the  wide  door  of  the  Province  House 
had  seldom  given  admittance  to  more  numerous  and 
honorable  guests  than  on  the  evening  of  Lady  Eleanore's 
ball.  Without  much  extravagance  of  eulogy,  the  spectacle 
might  even  be  termed  splendid;  for,  according  to  the 
fashion  of  the  times,  the  ladies  shone  in  rich  silks  and 


LADY    ELE ANDRE'S    MANTLE.  49 

satins,  outspread  over  wide-projecting  hoops;  and  the 
gentlemen  glittered  in  gold  embroidery,  laid  unsparingly 
upon  the  purple,  or  scarlet,  or  sky-blue  velvet,  which 
was  the  material  of  their  coats  and  waistcoats.  The  lat- 
ter article  of  dress  was  of  great  importance,  since  .it  en- 
veloped the  wearer's  body  nearly  to  the  knees,  and  was 
perhaps  bedizened  with  the  amount  of  his  whole  year's 
income,  in  golden  flowers  and  foliage.  The  altered  taste 
of  the  present  day  —  a  taste  symbolic  of  a  deep  change 
in  the  whole  system  of  society  —  would  look  upon  almost 
any  of  those  gorgeous  figures  as  ridiculous  ;  although  that 
evening  the  guests  sought  their  reflections  in  the  pier- 
glasses,  and  rejoiced  to  catch  their  own  glitter  amid  the 
glittering  crowd.  What  a  pity  that  one  of  the  stately 
mirrors  has  not  preserved  a  picture  of  the  scene,  which, 
by  the  very  traits  that  were  so  transitory,  might  have 
taught  us  much  that  would  be  worth  knowing  and  re- 
membering ! 

Would,  at  least,  that  either  painter  or  mirror  could 
convey  to  us  some  faint  idea  of  a  garment,  already  no- 
ticed in  this  legend,  —  the  Lady  Eleanore's  embroidered 
mantle,  —  which  the  gossips  whispered  was  invested  with 
magic  properties,  so  as  to  lend  a  new  and  untried  grace 
to  her  figure  each  time  that  she  put  it  on !  Idle  fancy  as 
it  is,  this  mysterious  mantle  has  thrown  an  awe  around 
my  image  of  her,  partly  from  its  fabled  virtues,  and 
partly  because  it  was  the  handiwork  of  a  dying  woman, 
and,  perchance,  owed  the  fantastic  grace  of  its  concep- 
tion to  the  delirium*  of  approaching  death. 

After  the  ceremonial  greetings  had  been  paid,  Lady 
Eleanore  Rochcliffe  stood  apart  from  the  mob  of  guests, 
insulating  herself  within  a  small  and  distinguished  circle, 
to  whom  she  accorded  a  more  cordial  favor  than  to  the 
general  throng.  The  waxen  torches  threw  their  radiance 

VOL.  II.  3  D 


50  TWICE-TOLD   TALES. 

vividly  over  the  scene,  bringing  out  its  brilliant  points  in 
strong  relief ;  but  she  gazed  carelessly,  and  with  now 
and  then  an  expression  of  weariness  or  scorn,  tempered 
with  such  feminine  grace,  that  her  auditors  scarcely  per- 
ceived the  moral  deformity  of  which  it  was  the  utterance. 
She  beheld  the  spectacle  not  with  vulgar  ridicule,  as  dis- 
daining to  be  pleased  with  the  provincial  mockery  of  a 
court  festival,  but  with  the  deeper  scorn  of  one  whose 
spirit  held  itself  too  high  to  participate  in  the  enjoyment 
of  other  human  souls.  Whether  or  no  the  recollections 
of  those  who  saw  her  that  evening  were  influenced  by 
the  strange  events  with  which  she  was  subsecfueutly  con- 
nected, so  it  was  that  her  figure  ever  after  recurred  to 
them  as  marked  by  something  wild  and  unnatural ;  al- 
though, at  the  time,  the  general  whisper  was  of  her  ex- 
ceeding beauty,  and  of  the  indescribable  charm  which 
her  mantle  threw  around  lier.  Some  close  observers,  in- 
deed, detected  a  feverish  flush  and  alternate  paleness  of 
countenance,  with  a  corresponding  flow  and  revulsion  of 
spirits,  and  once  or  twice  a  painful  and  helpless  betrayal 
of  lassitude,  as  if  she  were  on  the  point  of  sinking  to  the 
ground.  Then,  with  a  nervous  shudder,  she  seemed  to 
arouse  her  energies,  and  threw  some  bright  and  playful, 
yet  half-wicked  sarcasm  into  the  conversation.  There 
was  so  strange  a  characteristic  in  her  manners  and  sen- 
timents, that  it  astonished  every  right-minded  listener ; 
till  looking  in  her  face,  a  lurking  and  incomprehensible 
glance  and  smile  perplexed  them  with  doubts  both  as  to 
her  seriousness  and  sanity.  Gradually,  Lady  Eleanore 
Rochcliffe's  circle  grew  smaller,  till  only  four  gentlemen 
remained  in  it.  These  wrere  Captain  Langford,  the  Eng- 
lish officer  before  mentioned ;  a  Virginian  planter,  who 
had  come  to  Massachusetts  on  some  political  errand ;  a 
young  Episcopal  clergyman,  the  grandson  of  a  British 


LADY    ELEANORE'S    MANTLE.  51 

Earl;  and  lastly,  the  private  secretary  of  Governor 
Slmte,  whose  obsequiousness  had  won  a  sort  of  toler- 
ance from  Lady  Eleanore. 

At  diiferent  periods  of  the  evening  the  liveried  ser- 
vants of  the  Province  House  passed  among  the  guests, 
bearing  huge  trays  of  refreshments,  and  French  and 
Spanish  wines.  Lady  Eleanore  Rochcliffe,  who  refused 
to  wet  her  beautiful  lips  even  with  a  bubble  of  cham- 
pagne, had  sunk  back  into  a  large  damask  chair,  appar- 
ently overwearied  either  with  the  excitement  of  the 
scene  or  its  tedium ;  and  while,  for  an  instant,  she  was 
unconscious  of  voices,  laughter,  and  music,  a  young  man 
stole  forward,  and  knelt  down  at  her  feet.  He  bore  a 
salver  in  his  hand,  on  which  was  a  chased  silver  goblet, 
filled  to  the  brim  with  wine,  which  he  offered  as  rev- 
erentially as  to  a  crowned  queen,  or  rather  with  the 
awful  devotion  of  a  priest  doing  sacrifice  to  his  idol. 
Conscious  that  some  one  touched  her  robe,  Lady 
Eleauore  started,  and  unclosed  her  eyes  upon  the 
pale,  wild  features  and  dishevelled  hair  of  Jervase  Hel- 
wyse. 

"  Why  do  you  haunt  me  thus  ?  "  said  she,  in  a  languid 
tone,  but  with  a  kindlier  feeling  than  she  ordinarily  per- 
mitted herself  to  express.  "  They  tell  me  that  I  have 
done  you  harm." 

"  Heaven  knows  if  that  be  so,"  replied  the  young  man, 
solemnly.  "  But,  Lady  Eleanore,  in  requital  of  that 
harm,  if  such  there  be,  and  for  your  own  earthly  and 
heavenly  welfare,  T  pray  you  to  take  one  sip  of  this  holy 
wine,  and  then  to  pass  the  goblet  round  among  the 
guests.  And  this  shall  be  a  symbol  that  you  have  not 
sought  to  withdraw  yourself  from  the  chain  of  human 
sympathies, — which  whoso  would  shake  off  must  keep 
company  with  fallen  angels." 


52  TWICE-TOLD   TALES. 

"  Where  has  this  mad  fellow  stolen  that  sacramental 
vessel  ?  "  exclaimed  the  Episcopal  clergyman. 

This  question  drew  the  notice  of  the  guests  to  the 
silver  cup,  which  was  recognized  as  appertaining  to  the 
communion  plate  of  the  Old  South  Church ;  and  for 
aught  that  could  be  known,  it  was  brimming  over  with 
the  consecrated  wine. 

"Perhaps  it  is  poisoned,"  half  whispered  the  Govern- 
or's secretary. 

"  Pour  it  down  the  villain's  throat ! "  cried  the  Vir- 
ginian, fiercely. 

"  Turn  him  out  of  the  house !  "  cried  Captain  Lang- 
ford,  seizing  Jervase  Helwyse  so  roughly  by  the  shoulder 
that  the  sacramental  cup  was  overturned,  and  its  con- 
tents sprinkled  upon  Lady  Eleanore's  mantle.  "  Wheth- 
er knave,  fool,  or  Bedlamite,  it  is  intolerable  that  the 
fellow  should  go  at-  large." 

"  Pray,  gentlemen,  do  my  poor  admirer  no  harm,"  said 
Lady  Eleauore,  with  a  faint  and  weary  smile.  "Take 
him  out  of  my  sight,  if  such  be  your  pleasure ;  for  I 
can  find  in  my  heart  to  do  nothing  but  laugh  at  him ; 
whereas,  in  all  decency  and  conscience,  it  would  become 
me  to  weep  for  the  mischief  I  have  wrought !  " 

But  while  the  by-standers  were  attempting  to  lead 
away  the  unfortunate  young  man,  he  broke  from  them, 
and  with  a  wild,  impassioned  earnestness,  offered  a  new 
and  equally  strange  petition  to  Lady  Eleanore.  It  was 
no  other  than  that  she  should  throw  off  the  mantle, 
which,  while  he  pressed  the  silver  cup  of  wine  upon 
her,  she  had  drawn  more  closely  around  her  form,  so 
as  almost  to  shroud  herself  within  it. 

"  Cast  it  from  you !  "  exclaimed  Jervase  Helwyse,  clasp- 
ing his  hands  in  an  agony  of  entreaty.  "  It  may  not  yet 
be  too  late !  Give  the  accursed  garment  to  the  flames !  " 


LADY    ELEANOUE'S    MANTLE.  53 

But  Lady  Eleanore,  with  a  laugh  of  scorn,  drew  the 
rich  folds  of  the  embroidered  mantle  over  her  head,  in 
such  a  fashion  as  to  give  a  completely  new  aspect  to 
her  beautiful  face,  which — half  hidden,  half  revealed  — 
seemed  to  belong  to  some  being  of  mysterious  character 
and  purposes. 

"Farewell,  Jervase  Helwyse  !  "  said  she.  "Keep  my 
image  in  your  remembrance,  as  you  behold  it  now." 

"  Alas,  lady ! "  he  replied,  in  a  tone  no  longer 
wild,  but  sad  as  a  funeral  bell.  "We  must  meet 
shortly,  when  your  face  may  wear  another  aspect ; 
and  that  shall  be  the  image  that  must  abide  within 
me." 

He  made  no  more  resistance  to  the  violent  efforts  of 
the  gentlemen  and  servants,  who  almost  dragged  him 
out  of  the  apartment,  and  dismissed  him  roughly  from 
the  iron  gate  of  the  Province  House..  Captain  Langford, 
who  had  been  very  active  in  this  affair,  was  returning 
to  the  presence  of  Lady  Eleanore  Rochcliffe,  when  he 
encountered  the  physician,  Dr.  Clarke,  with  whom  he 
had  held  some  casual  talk  on  the  day  of  her  arrival. 
The  Doctor  stood  apart,  separated  from  Lady  Eleanore 
by  the  width  of  the  room,  but  eying  her  with  such  keen 
sagacity,  that  Captain  Langford  involuntarily  gave  him 
credit  for  the  discovery  of  some  deep  secret. 

"  You  appear  to  be  smitten,  after  all,  with  the  charms 
of  this  queenly  maiden,"  said  he,  hoping  thus  to  draw 
forth  the  physician's  hidden  knowledge. 

"God  forbid!  "#answered  Dr.  Clarke,  with  a  grave 
smile ;  "  and  if  you  be  wise,  you  will  put  up  the  same 
prayer  for  yourself.  Woe  to  those  who  shall  be  smitten 
by  this  beautiful  Lady  Eleanore !  But  yonder  stands 
the  Governor,  and  I  have  a  word  or  two  for  his  pri- 
vate ear.  Good  night !  " 


54  TWICE-TOLD    TALES. 

He  accordingly  advanced  to  Governor  Sliute,  and  ad- 
dressed him  in  so  low  a  tone  that  none  of  the  by-standers 
could  catch  a  word  of  what  he  said ;  although  the  sud- 
den change  of  his  Excellency's  hitherto  cheerful  visage 
betokened  that  the  communication  could  be  of  no  agree- 
able import.  A  very  few  moments  afterwards,  it  was 
announced  to  the  guests  that  an  unforeseen  circumstance 
rendered  it  necessary  to  put  a  premature  close  to  the 
festival. 

The  ball  at.  the  Province  House  supplied  a  topic  of 
conversation  for  the  colonial  metropolis,  for  some  days 
after  its  occurrence,  and  might  still  longer  have  been 
the  general  theme,  only  that  a  subject  of  all-engrossing 
interest  thrust  it,  for  a  time,  from  the  public  recollec- 
tion. This  was  the  appearance  of  a  dreadful  epidemic, 
which,  in  that  age,  and  long  before  and  afterwards,  was 
wont  to  slay  its  hundreds  and  thousands,  on  both  sides 
of  the  Atlantic.  On  the  occasion  of  which  we  speak,  it 
was  distinguished  by  a  peculiar  virulence,  insomuch  that 
it  has  left  it's  traces  —  its  pit-marks,  to  use  an  appro- 
priate figure  —  on  the  history  of  the  country,  the  affairs 
of  which  were  thrown  into  confusion  by  its  ravages.  At 
first,  unlike  its  ordinary  course,  the  disease  seemed  to 
confine  itself  to  the  higher  circles  of  society,  selecting 
its  victims  from  among  the  proud,  the  well-born,  and 
the  wealthy,  entering  unabashed  into  stately  chambers, 
and  lying  down  with  the  slumberers  in  silken  beds. 
Some  of  the  most  distinguished  guests  of  the  Province 
House  —  even  those  whom  the  haughty  Lady  Eleanore 
Rochcliffe  had  deemed  not  unworthy  of  her  favor  —  were 
stricken  by  this  fatal  scourge.  It  was  noticed,  with  an 
ungenerous  bitterness  of  feeling,  that  the  four  gentlemen 
—  the  Virginian,  the  British  officer,  the  young  clergy- 
man, and  the  Governor's  secretary  —  who  had  been  her 


LADY    ELEANORE'S    MANTLE.  55 

most  devoted  attendants  on  the  evening  of  the  ball  were 
the  foremost  on  whom  the  plague-stroke  fell.  But  the 
disease,  pursuing  its  onward  progress,  soon  ceased  to  be 
exclusively  a  prerogative  of  aristocracy.  Its  red  brand 
was  no  longer  conferred,  like  a  noble's  star,  or  an  order 
of  knighthood.  It  threaded  its  way  through  the  narrow 
and  crooked  streets,  and  entered  the  low,  mean,  dark- 
some dwellings,  and  laid  its  hand  of  death  upon  the 
artisans  and  laboring  classes  of  the  town.  It  compelled 
rich  and  poor  to  feel  themselves  brethren,  then;  and 
stalking  to  and  fro  across  the  Three  Hills,  with  a  fierce- 
ness which  made  it  almost  a  new  pestilence,  there  was 
that  mighty  conqueror  —  that  scourge  and  horror  of  our 
forefathers  —  the  Small-Pox ! 

We  cannot  estimate  the  affright  which  this  plague  in- 
spired of  yore,  by  contemplating  it  as  the  fangless  mon- 
ster of  the  present  day.  We  must  remember,  rather, 
with  what  awe  we  watched  the  gigantic  footsteps  of  the 
Asiatic  cholera,  striding  from  shore  to  shore  of  the  At- 
lantic, and  marching  like  destiny  upon  cities  far  remote, 
which  flight  had  already  half  depopulated.  There  is  no 
other  fear  so  horrible  and  unhumanizing,  as  that  which 
makes  man  dread  to  breathe  Heaven's  vital  air,  lest  it 
be  poison,  or  to  grasp  the  hand  of  a  brother  or  friend, 
lest  the  gripe  of  the  pestilence  should  clutch  him.  Such 
was  the  dismay  that  now  followed  in  the  track  of  the 
disease,  or  ran  before  it  throughout  the  town.  Graves 
were  hastily  dug,  and  the  pestilential  relics  as  hastily 
covered,  because  the  dead  were  enemies  of  the  living, 
and  strove  to  draw  them  headlong,  as  it  were,  into  their 
own  dismal  pit.  The  public  councils  were  suspended, 
as  if  mortal  wisdom  might  relinquish  its  devices,  now 
that  an  unearthly  usurper  had  found  his  way  into  the 
ruler's  mansion.  Had  an  enemv's  fleet  been  hovering 


56  TWICE-TOLD    TALES. 

on  the  coast,  or  bis  armies  trampling  on  our  soil,  the 
people  would  probably  have  committed  their  defence  to 
that  same  direful  conqueror,  who  had  wrought  their  own 
calamity,  and  would  permit  no  interference  with  his 
sway.  This  conqueror  had  a  symbol  of  his  triumphs. 
It  was  a  blood-red  flag,  that  fluttered  in  the  tainted  air, 
over  the  door  of  every  dwelling  into  which  the  Small- 
Pox  had  entered. 

Such  a  banner  was  long  since  waving  over  the  portal 
of  the  Province  House  ;  for  thence,  as  was  proved  by 
tracking  its  footsteps  back,  had  all  this  dreadful  mis- 
chief issued.  It  had  been  traced  back  to  a  lady's  luxu- 
rious chamber,  —  to  the  proudest  of  the  proud,  —  to  her 
that  was  so  delicate,  and  hardly  owned  herself  of  earthly 
mould,  '• —  to  the  haughty  one,  who  took  her  stand  above 
human  sympathies,  —  to  Lady  Eleanore  !  There  re- 
mained no  room  for  doubt,  that  the  contagion  had  lurked 
in  that  gorgeous  mantle,  which  threw  so  strange  a  grace 
around  her  at  the  festival.  Its  fantastic  splendor  had 
been  conceived  in  the  delirious  brain  of  a  woman  on  her 
death-bed,  and  was  the  last  toil  of  her  stiffening  fingers, 
which  had  interwoven  fate  and  misery  with  its  golden 
threads.  This  dark  tale,  whispered  at  first,  was  now 
bruited  far  and  wide.  The  people  raved  against  the 
Lady  Eleanore,  and  cried  out  that  her  pride  and  scorn 
had  evoked  a  fiend,  and  that,  between  them  both,  this 
monstrous  evil  had  been  born.  At  times,  their  rage  and 
despair  took  the  semblance  of  grinning  mirth  ;  and  when- 
ever the  red  flag  of  the  pestilence  was  hoisted  over 
another,  and  yet  another  door,  they  clapped  their 
hands  and  shouted  through  the  streets  in  bitter  mock- 
ery, "Behold  a  new  triumph  for  the  Lady  Elea- 
iiore ! " 

One  day,  in  the  midst  of  these  dismal  times,  a  wild 


LADY    ELEANORE'S    MANTLE.  57 

figure  approached  the  portal  of  the  Province  House,  and 
folding  his  arms,  stood  contemplating  the  scarlet  banner, 
which  a  passing  breeze  shook  fitfully,  as  if  to  fling  abroad 
the  contagion  that  it  typified.  At  length,  climbing  one 
'of  the  pillars  by  means  of  the  iron  balustrade,  he  took 
down  the  flag,  and  entered  the  mansion,  waving  it  above 
his  head.  At  the  foot  of  tlie  staircase  he  met  the  Gov- 
ernor, booted  and  spurred,  with  his  cloak  drawn  around 
him,  evidently  ou  the  point  of  setting  forth  upon  a 
journey. 

"  Wretched  lunatic,  what  do  you  seek  here  ? "  ex- 
claimed Shute,  extending  his  cane  to  guard  himself  from 
contact.  "  There  is  nothing  here  but  Death.  Back,  — 
or  you  will  meet  him  !  " 

"Death  will  not  touch  me,  the  banner-bearer  of  the 
pestilence  !  "  cried  Jervase  Helwyse,  shaking  the  red  flag 
aloft.  "Death  and  the  Pestilence,  who  wears  the  as- 
pect of  the  Lady  Eleanore,  will  walk  through  the  streets 
to-night,  and  I  must  march  before  them  with  this  ban- 
ner ! " 

"  Why  do  I  waste  words  on  the  fellow  ?  "  muttered 
the  Governor,  drawing  his  cloak  across  his  mouth. 
"  What  matters  his  miserable  life,  when  none  of  us  are 
sure  of  twelve  hours'  breath  ?  On,  fool,  to  your  own 
destruction ! " 

He  made  way  for  Jervase  Helwyse,  who  immediately 
ascended  the  staircase,  but,  on  the  first  landing-place, 
was  arrested  by  the  firm  grasp  of  a  hand  upon  his 
shoulder.  Looking  fiercely  up,  with  a  madman's  im- 
pulse to  struggle  with  and  rend  asunder  his  opponent, 
lie  found  himself  powerless  beneath  a  calm,  stem  eye, 
which  possessed  the  mysterious  property  of  quelling 
frenzy  at  its  height.  The  person  whom  he  had  now 
encountered  was  the  physician,  Dr.  Clarke,  the  duties 
3* 


58  TWICE-TOLD   TALES. 

of  whose  sad  profession  had  led  him  to  the  Province 
House,  where  he  was  an  infrequent  guest  in  more  pros- 
perous times. 

"  Young  man,  what  is  your  purpose  ?  "  demanded  he. 

"I  seek  the  Lady  Eleanore,"  answered  Jervase  Hel- 
wyse,  submissively. 

"  All  have  fled  from  her,"  said  the  physician.  "  "Win- 
do  you  seek  her  now  r*  I  tell  you,  youth,  her  nurse  fell 
death-stricken  on  the  threshold  of  that  fatal  chamber. 
Know  ye  not,  that  never  came  such  a  curse  to  our 
shores  as  this  lovely  Lady  Eleanore  ?  —  that  her  breath 
has  filled  the  air  with  poison  ?  —  that  she  has  shaken 
pestilence  and  death  upon  the  land,  from  the  folds  of  her 
accursed  mantle  ?  " 

"Let  me  look  upon  her!"  rejoined  the  mad  youth, 
more  wildly.  "  Let  me  behold  her,  in  her  awful  beauty, 
clad  in  the  regal  garments  of  the  pestilence !  She  and 
Death  sit  on  a  throne  together.  Let  me  kneel  down  be- 
fore them  !  " 

"  Poor  youth  !  "  said  Dr.  Clarke ;  and,  moved  by  a 
deep  sense  of  human  weakness,  a  smile  of  caustic  hu- 
mor curled  his  lip  even  then.  "  Wilt  thou  still  worship 
the  destroyer,  and  surround  her  image  with  fantasies  the 
more  magnificent,  the  more  evil  she  has  wrought  ?  Thus 
man  doth  ever  to  his  tyrants  !  Approach,  then!  Mad- 
ness, as  I  have  noted,  has  that  good  efficacy,  that  it  will 
guard  you  from  contagion ;  and  perchance  its  own  cure 
may  be  found  in  yonder  chamber." 

Ascending  another  flight  of  stairs,  he  threw  open  a 
door,  and  signed  to  Jervase  Helwyse  that  he  should  en- 
ter. The  poor  lunatic,  it  seems  probable,  had  cherished 
a  delusion  that  his  haughty  mistress  sat  in  state,  un- 
harmed herself  by  the  pestilential  influence,  which,  as 
by  enchantment,  she  scattered  round  about  her.  He 


LADY    ELEANORE'S    MANTLE.  59 

dreamed,  no  doubt,  that  her  beauty  was  not  dimmed, 
but  brightened  into  superhuman  splendor.  With  such 
anticipations,  he  stole  reverentially  to  the  door  at  which 
the  physician  stood,  but  paused  upon  the  threshold, 
gazing  fearfully  into  the  gloom  of  the  darkened  cham- 
ber. 

"  Where  is  the  Lady  Eleauore  ?  "  whispered  he. 

"  Call  her,"  replied  the  physician. 

"  Lady  Eleanore  !  —  Princess  !  —  Queen  of  Death  !  " 
cried  Jervase  Helwyse,  advancing  three  steps  into  the 
chamber.  "  She  is  not  here  !  There,  on  yonder  table,  I 
behold  the  sparkle  of  a  diamond  which  once  she  wore 
upon  her  bosom.  There,"  —  and  he  shuddered,  — 
"  there  hangs  her  mantle,  on  which  a  dead  woman  em- 
broidered a  spell  of  dreadful  potency.  But  where  is  the 
Lady  Eleanore  F  " 

Something  stirred  within  the  silken  curtains  of  a  cano- 
pied bed ;  and  a  low  moan  was  uttered,  which,  listening 
intently,  Jervase  Helwyse  began  to  distinguish  as  a  wo- 
man's voice,  complaining  dolefully  of  thirst.  He  fancied, 
even,  that  he  recognized  its  tones. 

"  My  throat !  —  my  throat  is  scorched,"  murmured 
the  voice.  "A  drop  of  water!" 

"  What  thing  art  thou  ? "  said  the  brain-stricken 
youth,  drawing  near  the  bed  and  tearing  asunder  its 
curtains.  "  Whose  voice  hast  thou  stolen  for  thy 
murmurs  and  miserable  petitions,  as  if  Lady  Eleanore 
could  be  conscious  of  mortal  infirmity  ?  Fie !  Heap 
of  diseased  mortality,  why  lurkest  thou  in  my  lady's 
chamber  ?  " 

"O  Jervase  Helwyse,"  said  the  voice,  —  and  as  it 
spoke,  the  figure  contorted  itself,  struggling  to  hide 
its  blasted  face,  —  "look  not  now  on  the  woman  you 
once  loved  I  The  curse  of  Heaven  hath  stricken  me, 


60  TWICE-TOLD   TALES. 

because  I  would  not  call  man  my  brother,  nor  woman 
sister.  I  wrapped  myself  in  PRIDE  as  in  a  MANTLE,  and 
scorned  the  sympathies  of  nature;  and  therefore  has 
nature  made  this  wretched  body  the  medium  of  a  dread- 
ful sympathy.  You  are  avenged,  —  they  are  all  avenged, 
—  nature  is  avenged,  —  for  I  am  Eleauore  Koch- 
cliffe !  " 

The  malice  of  his  mental  disease,  the  bitterness 
lurking  at  the  bottom  of  his  heart,  mad  as  he  was, 
for  a  blighted  and  ruined  life,  and  love  that  had  been 
paid  with  cruel  scorn,  awoke  within  the  breast  of  Jer- 
vase  Helwyse.  He  shook  his  finger  at  the  wretched 
girl,  and  the  chamber  echoed,  the  curtains  of  the 
bed  were  shaken,  with  his  outburst  of  insane  merri- 
ment. 

"  Another  triumph  for  the  Lady  Eleanore  !  "  he  cried. 
"All  have  been  her  victims  !  TV  ho  so  worthy  to  be  the 
final  victim  as  herself?  " 

Impelled  by  some  new  fantasy  of  his  crazed  intellect, 
he  snatched  the  fatal  mantle  and  rushed  from  the  cham- 
ber and  the  house.  That  night,  a  procession  passed,  by 
torchlight,  through  the  streets,  bearing  in  the  midst  the 
figure  of  a  woman,  enveloped  with  a  richly  embroidered 
mantle  ;  while  in  advance  stalked  Jervase  Helwyse,  wav- 
ing the  red  flag  of  the  pestilence.  Arriving  opposite  the 
Province  House,  the  mob  burned  the  effigy,  and  a  strong 
\vincf  came  and  swept  away  the  ashes.  It  was  said,  that, 
from  that  very  hour,  the  pestilence  abated,  as  if  its  sway 
had  some  mysterious  connection,  from  the  first  plague- 
stroke  to  the  last,  with  Lady  Eleanore's  Mantle.  A  re- 
markable uncertainty  broods  over  that  unhappy  lady's 
fate.  There  is  a  belief,  however,  that,  in  a  certain 
chamber  of  this  mansion,  a  female  form  may  sometimes  be 
duskily  discerned,  shrinking  into  the  darkest  earner,  and 


LADY    ELEANORE'S    MANTLE.  61 

muffling  her  face  within  an  embroidered  mantle.  Sup- 
posing the  legend  true,  can  this  be  other  than  the  once 
proud  Lady  Eleanore  ?  » 


Mine  host,  and  the  old  loyalist,  and  I  bestowed  no 
little  warmth  of  applause  upon  this  narrative,  in  which 
we  had  all  been  deeply  interested;  for  the  reader  can 
scarcely  conceive  how  unspeakably  the  effect  of  such  a 
tale  is  heightened,  when,  as  in  the  present  case,  we  may 
repose  perfect  confidence  in  the  veracity  of  him  who 
tells  it.  For  my  own  part,  knowing  how  scrupulous 
is  Mr.  Tiffany  to  settle  the  foundation  of  his  facts,  I 
could  not  have  believed  him  one  whit  the  more  faith- 
fully, had  he  professed  himself  an  eye-witness  of  the 
doings  and  sufferings  of  poor  Lady  Eleanore.  Some 
sceptics,  it  is  true,  might  demand  documentary  evidence, 
or  even  require  him  to  produce  the  embroidered  mantle, 
forgetting  that  —  Heaven  be  praised  —  it  was  consumed 
to  ashes.  But  now  the  old  loyalist,  whose  blood  was 
warmed  by  the  good  cheer,  began  to  talk,  in  his  turn, 
about  the  traditions  of  the  Province  House,  and  hinted 
that  he,  if  it  were  agreeable,  might  add  a  few  reminis- 
cences to  our  legendary  stock.  Mr.  Tiffany,  having  no 
cause  to  dread  a  rival,  immediately  besought  him  to 
favor  us  with  a  specimen  ;  my  own  entreaties,  of  course, 
were  urged  to  the  same  effect ;  and  our  venerable  guest, 
well  pleased  to  find  willing  auditors,  awaited  only  the 
return  of  Mr.  Thomas  Waite,  who  had  been  summoned 
forth  to  provide  accommodations  for  several  new  arrivals. 
Perchance  the  public  —  but  be  this  as  its  own  caprice 
and  ours  shall  settle  the  matter — may  read  the  result 
in  another  Tale  of  the  Province  House. 


LEGENDS  OP  THE  PROVINCE  HOUSE. 


IV. 
OLD  ESTHER  DUDLEY. 

|UK  host  having  resumed  the  chair,  he,  as  well 
as  Mr.  Tiffany  and  myself,  expressed  much 
eagerness  to  be  made  acquainted  with  the  story 
to  which  the  loyalist  had  alluded.  That  venerable  man 
first  of  all  saw  fit  to  moisten  his  throat  with  another 
glass  of  wine,  and  then,  turning  his  face  towards  our 
coal-fire,  looked  steadfastly  for  a  few  moments  into  the 
depths  of  its  cheerful  glow.  Finally,  he  poured  forth  a 
great  fluency  of  speech.  The  generous  liquid  that  he 
had  imbibed,  while  it  warmed  his  age-chilled  blood,  like- 
wise took  off  the  chill  from  his  heart  and  mind,  and  gave 
him  an  energy  to  think  and  feel,  which  we  could  hardly 
have  expected  to  find  beneath  the  snows  of  fourscore 
winters.  His  feelings,  indeed,  appeared  to  me  more 
excitable  than  those  of  a  younger  man  ;  or,  at  least, 
the  same  degree  of  feeling  manifested  itself  by  more 
visible  effects,  than  if  his  judgment  and  will  had  pos- 
sessed the  potency  of  meridian  life.  At  the  pathetic 
passages  of  his  narrative,  he  readily  melted  into  tears. 
When  a  breath  of  indignation  swept  across  his  spirit, 


OLD    ESTHER    DUDLEY.  63 

the  blood  flushed  his  withered  visage  even  to  the  roots 
of  his  white  hair ;  and  he  shook  his  clinched  fist  at  the 
trio  of  peaceful  auditors,  seeming  to  fancy  enemies 
in  those  who  felt  very  kindly  towards  the  desolate  old 
soul.  But  ever  and  anon,  sometimes  in  the  midst 
of  his  most  earnest  talk,  this  ancient  person's  intellect 
would  wander  vaguely,  losing  its  hold  of  the  matter  in 
hand,  and  groping  for  it  amid  misty  shadows.  Then 
would  he  cackle  forth  a  feeble  laugh,  and  express  a 
doubt  whether  his  wits  —  for  by.  that  phrase  it  pleased 
our  ancient  friend  to  signify  his  mental  powers  —  were 
not  getting  a  little  the  worse  for  wear. 

Under  these  disadvantages,  the  old  loyalist's  story  re- 
quired more  revision  to  render  it  fit  for  the  public  eye, 
than  those  of  the  series  which  have  preceded  it;  nor 
should  it  be  concealed,  that  the  sentiment  and  tone  of  the 
affair  may  have  undergone  some  slight,  or  perchance  more 
than  slight  metamorphosis,  in  its  transmission  to  the 
reader  through  the  medium  of  a  thorough-going  demo- 
crat. The  tale  itself  is  a  mere  sketch,  with  no  involution 
of  plot,  nor  any  great  interest  of  events,  yet  possessing,  if 
I  have  rehearsed  it  aright,  that  pensive  influence  over  the 
mind,  which  the  shadow  of  the  old  Province  House  flings 
upon  the  loiterer  in  its  court-yard. 


The  hour  had  come  —  the  hour  of  defeat  and  humilia- 
tion—  when  Sir  William  Howe  was  to  pass  over  the 
threshold  of  the  Province  House,  and  embark,  with  no 
such  triumphal  ceremonies  as  he  once  promised  himself, 
on  board  the  British  fleet.  He  bade  his  servants  and 
military  attendants  go  before  him,  and  lingered  a  moment 
in  the  loneliness  of  the  mansion,  to  quell  the  fierce  emo- 


64  TWICE-TOLD   TALES. 

tions  that  struggled  in  his  bosom  as  with  a  death-throb. 
Preferable,  then,  would  he  have  deemed  his  fate,  had  a 
warrior's  death  left  him  a  claim  to  the  narrow  territory 
of  a  grave,  within  the  soil  which  the  King  had  given  him 
to  defend.  With  an  ominous  perception  that,  as  his  de- 
parting footsteps  echoed  adown  the  staircase,  the  sway  of 
Britain  was  passing  forever  from  New  England,  lie  smote 
his  clinched  hand  on  his  brow,  and  cursed  the  destiny 
that  had  flung  the  shame  of  a  dismembered  empire  upon 
him. 

"  Would  to  God,"  cried  he,  hardly  repressing  his  .tears 
of  rage,  "  that  the  rebels  were  even  now  at  the  doorstep  ! 
A  blood-stain  upon  the  floor  should  then  bear  testimony 
that  the  last  British  ruler  was  faithful  to  his  trust." 

The  tremulous  voice  of  a  woman  replied  to  his  ex- 
clamation. 

"Heaven's  cause  and  the  King's  are  one,"  it  said. 
"  Go  forth,  Sir  William  Howe,  and  trust  in  Heaven  to 
bring  back  a  Royal  Governor  in  triumph." 

Subduing  at  once  the  passion  to  which  he  had  yielded 
only  in  the  faith  that  it  was  unwitnessed,  Sir  William 
Howe  became  conscious  that  an  aged  woman,  leaning  on 
a  gold-headed  staff,  was  standing  betwixt  him  and  the 
door.  It  was  old  Esther  Dudley,  who  had  dwelt  almost 
immemorial  years  in  this  mansion,  until  her  presence 
seemed  as  inseparable  from  it  as  the  recollections  of  its 
history.  She  was  the  daughter  of  an  ancient  and  once 
eminent  family,  which  had  fallen  into  poverty  and  decay, 
and  left  its  last  descendant  no  resource  save  the  bounty 
of  the  King,  nor  any  shelter  except  within  the  walls  of 
the  Province  House.  An  office  in  the  household,  with 
merely  nominal  duties,  had  been  assigned  to  her  as  a 
pretext  for  the  payment  of  a  small  pension,  the  greater 
part  of  which  she  expended  in  adorning  herself  with  an 


OLD    ESTHEIl    DUDLEY.  65 

antique  magnificence  of  attire.  The  claims  of  Esther 
Dudley's  gentle  blood  were  acknowledged  by  all  the  suc- 
cessive governors  ;  and  they  treated  her  with  the  punc- 
tilious courtesy  which  it  was  her  foible  to  demand,  not 
always  with  success,  from  a  neglectful  world.  The  only 
actual  share  which  she  assumed  in  the  business  of  the 
mansion  was  to  glide  through  its  passages  and  public 
chambers,  late  at  night,  to  see  that  the  servants  had 
dropped  no  fire  from  their  flaring  torches,  nor  left  embers 
crackling  and  blazing  on  the  hearths.  Perhaps  it  was 
this  invariable  custom  of  walking  her  rounds  in  the  hush 
of  midnight,  that  caused  the  superstition  of  the  times  to 
invest  the  old  woman  with  attributes  of  awe  and  mystery ; 
fabling  that  she  had  entered  the  portal  of  the  Province 
House,  none  knew  whence,  in  the  train  of  the  first  royal 
governor,  and  that  it  was  her  fate  to  dwell  there  till  the 
last  should  have  departed.  But  Sir  William  Howe,  if  he 
ever  heard  this  legend,  had  forgotten  it. 

"  Mistress  Dudley,  why  are  you  loitering  nere  ? " 
asked  he,  with  some  severity  of  tone.  "  It  is  my  pleas- 
ure to  be  the  last  in  this  mansion  of  the  King." 

"  Not  so,  if  it  please  your  Excellency,"  answered  the 
time  -  stricken  woman.  "This  roof  has  sheltered  me 
long.  1  will  not  pass  from  it  until  they  bear  me  to  the 
tomb  of  my  forefathers.  What  other  shelter  is  there 
for  old  Esther  Dudley,  save  the  Province  .House  or  the 
grave  ?  " 

"  Now  Heaven  forgive  me  !  "  said  Sir  William  Howe 
to  himself.  "I  was  about  to  leave  this  wretched  old 
creature  to  starve  or  beg.  Take  this,  good  Mistress 
Dudley,"  he  added,  putting  a  purse  into  her  hands. 
"  King  George's  head  on  these  golden  guineas  is  sterling 
yet,  and  will  continue  so,  I  warrant  you,  even  should  the 
rebels  crown  John  Hancock  their  king.  That  purse  will 


66  TWICE-TOLD    TALES. 

buy  a  better  shelter  than  the  Province  House  can  now 
afford." 

"While  the  burden  of  life  remains  upon  me,  I  will 
have  no  other  shelter  than  this  roof,"  persisted  Esther 
Dudley,  striking  her  staff  upon  the  floor,  with  a  gesture 
that  expressed  immovable  resolve.  "  And  when  your 
Excellency  returns  in  triumph,  I  will  totter  into  the 
porch  to  welcome  you." 

"  My  poor  old  friend  !  "  answered  the  British  General ; 
and  all  his  manly  and  martial  pride  could  no  longer  re- 
strain a  gush  of  bitter  tears.  "  This  is  an  evil  hour  for 
you  and  me.  The  province  which  the  King  intrusted  to 
my  charge  is  lost.  I  go  hence  in  misfortune  —  perchance 
in  disgrace — to  return  no  more.  And  you,  whose  pres- 
ent being  is  incorporated  with  the  past,  —  who  have 
seen  governor  after  governor,  in  stately  pageantry,  ascend 
these  steps,  —  whose  whole  life  has  been  an  observance  of 
majestic  ceremonies,  and  a  worship  of  the  King,  —  how 
will  \ou  endure  the  change  ?  Come  with  us  !  Bid  fare- 
well to  a  land  that  has  shaken  off  its  allegiance,  and  live 
still  under  a  royal  government,  at  Halifax." 

"  Never,  never !  "  said  the  pertinacious  old  dame. 
"  Here  will  I  abide  ;  and  King  George  shall  still  have  one 
true  subject  in  his  disloyal  province." 

"  Beshrew  the  old  fool !  "  muttered  Sir  William  Howe, 
growing  impatient  of  her  obstinacy,  and  ashamed  of  the 
emotion  into  which  he  had  been  betrayed.  "  She  is  the 
very  moral  of  old-fashioned  prejudice,  and  could  exist 
nowhere  but  in  this  musty  edifice.  Well,  then,  Mistress 
Dudley,  since  you  will  needs  tarry,  I  give  the  Province 
House  in  charge  to  you.  Take  this  key,  and  keep  it  safe 
until  myself,  or  some  other  royal  governor,  shall  demand 
it  of  you." 

Smiling  bitterly  at  himself  and  her,  he  took  the  heavy 


OLD    ESTHER    DUDLEY.  67 

key  of  the  Province  House,  and  delivering  it  into  the  old 
lady's  hands,  drew  his  cloak  around  him  for  departure. 
As  the  General  glanced  back  at  Esther  Dudley's  antique 
figure,  he  deemed  her  well  fitted  for  such  a  charge,  as 
being  so  perfect  a  representative  of  the  decayed  past,  — 
of  an  age  gone  by,  with  its  manners,  opinions,  faith,  and 
feelings,  all  fallen  into  oblivion  or  scorn,  —  of  what  had 
once  been  a  reality,  but  was  now  merely  a  vision  of  faded 
magnificence.  Then  Sir  William  Howe  strode  forth, 
smiting  his  clinched  hands  together,  in  the  fierce  anguish 
of  his  spirit :  and  old  Esther  Dudley  was  left  to  keep 
watch  in  the  lonely  Province  House,  dwelling  there  with 
memory ;  and  if  Hope  ever  seemed  to  flit  around  her,  still 
it  was  Memory  in  disguise. 

The  total  change  of  affairs  that  ensued  on  the  depart- 
ure of  the  British  troops  did  not  drive  the  venerable  lady 
from  her  stronghold.  There  was  not,  for  many  years 
afterwards,  a  governor  of  Massachusetts  ;  and  the  magis- 
trates, who  had  charge  of  such  matters,  saw  no  objection 
to  Esther  Dudley's  residence  in  the  Province  House,  es- 
pecially as  they  must  otherwise  have  paid  a  hireling  for 
taking  care  of  the  premises,  which  with  her  was  a  labor 
of  love.  And  so  they  left  her,  the  undisturbed  mistress 
of  the  old  historic  edifice.  Many  and  strange  were  the 
fables  which  the  gossips  whispered  about  her,  in  all  the 
chimney -comers  of  the  town.  Among  the  time-worn 
articles  of  furniture  that  had  been  left  in  the  mansion, 
there  was  a  tall,  antique  mirror,  which  was  well  worthy 
of.  a  tale  by  itself,  and  perhaps  may  hereafter  be  the  theme 
of  one.  The  gold  of  its  heavily  wrought  frame  was  tar- 
nished, and  its  surface  so  blurred,  that  the  old  woman's 
figure,  whenever  she  paused  before  it,  looked  indistinct 
and  ghost-like.  But  it  was  the  general  belief  that  Esther 
could  cause  the  governors  of  the  overthrown  dynasty, 


68  TWICE-TOLD    TALES. 

with  the  beautiful  ladies  who  had  once  adorned  their 
festivals,  the  Indian  chiefs  who  had  come  up  to  the 
Province  House  to  hold  council  or  swear  allegiance,  the 
grim  provincial  warriors,  the  severe  clergymen,  —  in 
short,  all  the  pageantry  of  gone  days,  —  all  the  figures 
that  ever  swept  across  the  broad  plate  of  glass  in  former 
times,  —  she  could  cause  the  whole  to  reappear,  and  peo- 
ple the  inner  world  of  the  mirror  with  shadows  of  old  life. 
Such  legends  as  these,  together  with  the  singularity  of 
her  isolated  existence,  her  age,  and  the  infirmity  that  each 
added  winter  flung  upon  her,  made  Mistress  Dudley  the 
object  both  of  fear  and  pity ;  and  it  was  partly  the  result 
of  either  sentiment,  that,  amid  all  the  angry  license  of  the 
times,  neither  wrong  nor  insult  ever  fell  upon  her  unpro- 
tected head.  Indeed,  there  was  so  much  haughtiness  in 
her  demeanor  towards  intruders,  among  whom  she  reck- 
oned all  persons  acting  under  the  new  authorities,  that  it 
was  really  an  affair  of  no  small  nerve  to  look  her  in  the 
face.  And  to  do  the  people  justice,  stern  republicans  as 
they  had  now  become,  they  were  well  content  that  the  old 
gentlewoman,  in  her  hoop  petticoat  and  faded  embroidery, 
should  still  haunt  the  palace  of  ruined  pride  and  over- 
thrown power,  the  symbol  of  a  departed  system,  embody- 
ing a  history  in  her  person.  So  Esther  Dudley  dwelt, 
year  after  year,  in  the  Province  House,  still  reverencing 
all  that  others  had  flung  aside,  still  faithful  to  her  King, 
who,  so  long  as  the  venerable  dame  yet  held  her  post, 
might  be  said  to  retain  one  true  subject  in  New  England, 
and  one  spot  of  the  empire  that  had  been  wrested  from 
him. 

And  did  she  dwell  there  in  utter  loneliness  ?  Rumor 
said,  not  so.  Whenever  her  chill  and  withered  heart 
desired  warmth,  she  was  wont  to  summon  a  black  slave 
of  Governor  Shirley's  from  the  blurred  mirror,  and  send 


OLD    ESTHER,   DUDLEY.  69 

him  in  search  of  guests  who  had  long  ago  been  familiar 
in  those  deserted  chambers.  Forth  went  the  sable  mes- 
senger, with  the  starlight  or  the  moonshine  gleaming 
through  him,  and  did  his  errand  in  the  burial-ground, 
knocking  at  the  iron  doors  of  tombs,  or  upon  the  marble 
slabs  that  covered  them,  and  whispering  to  those  within, 
"  My  mistress,  old  Esther  Dudley,  bids  you  to  the.  Prov- 
ince House  at  midnight."  And  punctually  as  the  clock 
of  the  Old  South  told  twelve,  came  the  shadows  of  the 
Olivers,  the  Hutchinsons,  the  Dudleys,  all  the  grandees 
of  a  bygone  generation,  gliding  beneath  the  portal  into 
the  well-known  mansion,  where  Esther  mingled  with  them 
as  if  she  likewise  were  a  shade.  Without  vouching  for 
the  truth  of  such  traditions,  it  is  certain  that  Mistress 
Dudley  sometimes  assembled  a  few  of  the  stanch,  though 
crestfallen  old  tories  who  had  lingered  in  the  rebel  town 
during  those  days  of  wrath  and  tribulation.  Out  of  a 
cobwebbed  bottle,  containing  liquor  that  a  royal  governor 
might  have  smacked  his  lips  over,  they  quaffed  healths  to 
the  King,  and  babbled  treason  to  the  Republic,  feeling 
as  if  the  protecting  shadow  of  the  throne  were  still  flung 
around  them.  But,  draining  the  last  drops  of  their  liquor, 
they  Stole  timorously  homeward,  and  answered  not  again, 
if  the  rude  mob  reviled  them  in  the  street. 

Yet  Esther  Dudley's  most  frequent  and  favored  guests 
were  the  children  of  the  town.  Towards  them  she  was 
never  stern.  A  kindly  and  loving  nature,  hindered  else- 
where from  its  free  course  by  a  thousand  rocky  preju- 
dices, lavished  itself  upon  these  little  ones.  By  bribes  of 
gingerbread  of  her  own  making,  stamped  with  a  royal 
crown,  she  tempted  their  sunny  sportiveness  beneath  the 
gloomy  portal  of  the  Province  House,  and  would  often 
beguile  them  to  spend  a  whole  play-day  there,  sitting  in 
a  circle  round  the  verge  of  her  hoop  petticoat,  greedily 


70  TWICE-TOLD   TALES. 

attentive  to  her  stories  of  a  dead  world.  And  when  these 
little  boys  and  girls  stole  forth  again  from  the  dark,  mys- 
terious mansion,  they  went  bewildered,  full  of  old  feelings 
that  graver  people  had  long  ago  forgotten,  rubbing  their 
eyes  at  the  world  around  them  as  if  they  had  gone  astray 
into  ancient  times,  and  become  children  of  the  past.  At 
home,  when  their  parents  asked  where  they  had  loitered 
such  a  weary  while,  and  with  whom  they  had  been  at 
play,  the  children  would  talk  of  all  the  departed  worthies 
of  the  province,  as  far  back  as  Governor  Belcher,  and 
the  haughty  dame  of  Sir  William  Phipps.  It  would 
seem  as  though  they  had  been  sitting  on  the  knees  of 
these  famous  personages,  whom  the  grave  had  hidden 
for  half  a  century,  and  had  toyed  with  the  embroidery  of 
their  rich  waistcoats,  or  roguishly  pulled  the  long  curls 
of  their  flowing  wigs.  "  But  Governor  Belcher  has  been 
dead  this  many  a  year,"  would  the  mother  say  to  her 
little  boy.  "  And  did  you  really  see  him  at  the  Province 
House  ?  "  "  O,  yes,  dear  mother !  yes  !  "  the  half- 
dreaming  child  would  answer.  "  But  when  old  Esther 
had  done  speaking  about  him  he  faded  away  out  of  his 
chair."  Thus,  without  affrighting  her  little  guests,  she 
led  them  by  the  hand  into  the  chambers  of  her  own'deso^ 
late  heart,  and  made  childhood's  fancy  discern  the  ghosts 
that  haunted  there. 

Living  so  continually  in  her  own  circle  of  ideas,  and 
never  regulating  her  mind  by  a  proper  reference  to 
present  things,  Esther  Dudley  appears  to  have  grown 
partially  crazed.  It  was  found  that  she  had  no  right 
sense  of  the  progress  and  true  state  of  the  Revolutionary 
War,  but  held  a  constant  faith  that  the  armies  of  Britain 
were  victorious  on  every  field,  and  destined  to  be  ulti- 
mately triumphant.  Whenever  the  town  rejoiced  for  a 
battle  won  by  Washington,-  or  Gates,  or  Morgan,  or 


OLD    ESTHER    DUDLEY.  71 

Greene,  the  news,  in  passing  through  the  door  of  the 
Province  House,  as  through  the  ivory  gate  of  dreams, 
became  metamorphosed  into  a  strange  tale  of  the  prowess 
of  Howe,  Clinton,  or  Cornwallis.  Sooner  or  later,  it 
was  her  invincible  belief,  the  colonies  would  be  prostrate 
at  the  footstool  of  the  King.  Sometimes  she  seemed  to 
take  for  granted  that  such  was  already  the  case.  On 
one  occasion,  she  startled  the  towns-people  by  a  brill- 
iant illumination  of  the  Province  House,  with  candles  at 
every  pane  of  glass,  and  a  transparency  of  the  King's 
initials  and  a  crown  of  light,  in  the  great  balcony  win- 
dow. The  figure  of  the  aged  woman,  in  the  most  gor- 
geous of  her  mildewed  velvets  and  brocades,  was  seen 
passing  from  casement  to  casement,  until  she  paused  be- 
fore the  balcony,  and  flourished  a  huge  key  above  her 
head.  Her  wrinkled  visage  actually  gleamed  with  tri- 
umph, as  if  the  soul  within  her  were  a  festal  lamp. 

"What  means  this  blaze  of  light?  What  does  old 
Esther's  joy  portend  ?  "  whispered  a  spectator.  "  It  is 
frightful  to  see  her  gliding  about  the  chambers,  and  re- 
joicing there  without  a  soul  to  bear  her  company." 

"  It  is  as  if  she  were  making  merry  in  a  tomb,"  said 
another. 

"Pshaw!  It  is  no  such  mystery,"  observed  an  old 
man,  after  some  brief  exercise  of  memory.  "  Mistress 
Dudley  is  keeping  jubilee  for  the  King  of  England's 
birthday." 

Then  the  people  laughed  aloud,  and  would  have 
thrown  mud  against  the  blazing  transparency  of  the 
King's  crown  and  initials,  only  that  they  pitied  the 
poor  old  dame,  who  was  so  dismally  triumphant  amid  • 
the  wreck  and  ruiii  of  tha  system  to  which  she  apper- 
tained. 

Oftentimes  it  was  her  custom  to  climb  the  weary  stair- 


72  TWICE-TOLD    TALES. 

case  that  wound  upward  to  the  cupola,  and  thence  strain 
her  dimmed  eyesight  seaward  and  countryward,  watching 
for  a  British  fleet,  or  for  the  inarch  of  a  grand  proces- 
sion, with  the  King's  banner  floating  over  it.  The  pas- 
sengers in  the  street  below  would  discern  her  anxious 
visage,  and  send  up  a  shout,  "  When  the  golden  In- 
dian on  the  Province  House  shall  shoot  his  arrow,  and 
when  the  cock  on  the  Old  South  spire  shall  crow,  then 
look  for  a  royal  governor  again  !  "  —  for  this  had  grown 
a  byword  through  the  town.  And  at  last,  after  long, 
long  years,  old  Esther  Dudley  knew,  or  perchance  she 
only  dreamed,  that  a  royal  governor  was  on  the  eve  of 
returning  to  the  Province  House,  to  receive  the  heavy 
key  which  Sir  William  Howe  had  committed  to  her 
charge.  Now  it  was  the  fact,  that  intelligence  bearing 
some  faint  analogy  to  Esther's  version  of  it,  was  current 
among  the  towns-people.  She  set  the  mansion  in  the 
best  order  that  her  means  allowed,  and  arraying  herself 
in  silks  and  tarnished  gold,  stood  long  before  the  blurred 
mirror  to  admire  her  own  magnificence.  As  she  gazed, 
the  gray  and  withered  lady  moved  her  ashen  lips,  mur- 
muring half  aloud,  talking  to  shapes  that  she  saw  within 
1  he  mirror,  to  shadows  of  her  own  fantasies,  to  the  house- 
hold friends  of  memory,  and  bidding  them  rejoice  with 
her,  and  come  forth  to  meet  the  governor.  And  while 
absorbed  in  this  communion,  Mistress  Dudley  heard  the 
tramp  of  many  footsteps  in  the  street,  and  looking  out 
at  the  window,  beheld  what  she  construed  as  the  royal 
governor's  arrival. 

"  O  happy  day  !  O  blessed,  blessed  hour  !  "  she  ex- 
claimed. "  Let  me  but  bid  him  welcome  within  the  por- 
tal, and  my  task  in  the  Province  House,  and  on  earth, 
is  done ! " 

Then  with  tottering  feet,  which  age  and  tremulous  joy 


OLD    ESTHER    DUDLEY.  73 

caused  to  tread  amiss,  she  hurried  down  the  grand  stair- 
case, her  silks  sweeping  and  rustling  as  she  went,  so  that 
the  sound  was  as  if  a  train. of  spectral  courtiers  were 
thronging  from  the  dim  mirror.  And  Esther  Dudley 
fancied,  that  as  soon  as  the  wide  door  should  be  flung 
open,  all  the  pomp  and  splendor  of  bygone  times  would 
pace  majestically  into  the  Province  House,  and  the  gilded 
tapestry  of  tha  past  would  be  brightened  by  the  sunshine 
of  the  present.  She  turned  the  key,  —  withdrew  it  from 
the  lock,  —  unclosed  the  door,  —  and  stepped  across  the 
threshold.  Advancing  up  the  court-yard  appeared  a 
person  of  most  dignified  mien,  with  tokens,  as  Esther 
interpreted  them,  of  gentle  blood,  high  rank,  and  long- 
accustomed  authority,  even  in  his  walk  and  every  ges- 
ture. He  was  richly  dressed,  but  wore  a  gouty  shoe, 
which,  however,  did  not  lessen  the  stateliuess  of  his  gait. 
Around  and  behind  him  were  people  in  plain  civic 
dresses,  and  two  or  three  war-worn  veterans,  evidently 
officers  of  rank,  arrayed  in  a  uniform  of  blue  and  buff. 
But  Esther  Dudley,  hrm  in  the  belief  that  had  fastened 
its  roots  about  her  heart,  beheld  only  the  principal  per- 
sonage, and  never  doubted  that  this  Was  the  long-looked  - 
for  governor,  to  whom  she  was  to  surrender  up  her 
charge.  As  he  approached,  she  involuntarily  sank  down 
on  her  knees,  and  tremblingly  held  forth  the  heavy  key. 

"  Receive  my  trust !  take  it  quickly ! "  cried  she ; 
"  for  methinks  Death  is  striving  to  snatch  away  my  tri- 
umph. But  he  comes  too  late.  Thank  Heaven  for  this 
blessed  hour!  God  save  King  George!" 

"  That,  madam,  is  a  strange  prayer  to  be  offered  up 
at  such  a  moment,"  replied  the  unknown  guest  of  the 
Province  House,  and  courteously  removing  his  hat,  he 
offered  his  arm  to  raise  the  aged  woman.  •"  Yet,  in  rev- 
erence for  your  gray  hairs  and  long-kept  faith,  Heaven 

VOL.  II.  4 


74  TWICE-TOLD   TALES. 

forbid  that  any  here  should  say  you  nay.  Over  the 
realms  which  still  acknowledge  his  sceptre,  God  save 
King  George  ! " 

Esther  Dudley  started  to  her  feet,  and  hastily  clutch- 
ing back  the  key,  gazed  with  fearful  earnestness  at  the 
stranger;  and  dimly  and  doubtfully,  as  if  suddenly 
awakened  from  a  dream,  her  bewildered  eyes  half  rec- 
ognized his  face.  Years  ago,  she  had  known. him  among 
the  gentry  of  the  province.  But  the  ban  of  the  King 
had  fallen  upon  him !  How,  then,  came  the  doomed 
victim  here  ?  Proscribed,  excluded  from  mercy,  the 
monarch's  most  dreaded  and  hated  foe,  this  New  Eng- 
land merchant  had  stood  triumphantly  against  a  king- 
dom's strength  ;  and  his  foot  now  trod  upon  humbled 
royalty,  as  he  ascended  the  steps  of  the  Province  House, 
the  people's  chosen  governor  of  Massachusetts. 

"Wretch,  wretch  that  I  am !  "  muttered  the  old  wo- 
man, with  such  a  heart-broken  expression,  that  the  tears 
gushed  from  the  stranger's  eyes.  "  Have  I  bidden  a 
traitor  welcome  ?  Come,  Death  !  come  quickly  !  " 

"  Alas,  venerable  lady !  "  said  Governor  Hancock, 
lending  her  his  support  with  all  the  reverence  that  a 
courtier  would  have  shown  to  a  queen.  "  Your  life  has 
been  prolonged  until  the  world  has  changed  around  you. 
You  have  treasured  up  all  that  time  has  rendered  worth- 
less, —  the  principles,  feelings,  manners,  modes  of  being 
and  acting,  which  another  generation  has  flung  aside,  — 
and  you  are  a  symbol  of  the  past.  And  I,  and  these 
around  me,  —  we  represent  a  new  race  of  men,  —  living 
no  longer  in  the  past,  scarcely  in  the  present,  —  but  pro- 
jecting our  lives  forward  into  the  future.  Ceasing  to 
model  ourselves  on  ancestral  superstitions,  it  is  our  faith 
and  principle- to  press  onward,  onward!  Y~et,"  continued 
he,  turning  to  his  attendants,  "let  us  reverence,  for  the 


OLD    ESTHER    DUDLEY.  »  75 

last  time,  the  stately  and  gorgeous  prejudices  of  the 
tottering  Past ! " 

While  the  republican  governor  spoke,  he  had  con- 
tinued to  support  the  helpless  form  of  Esther  Dudley ; 
her  weight  grew  heavier  against  his  arm ; '  but  at  last, 
with  a  sudden  effort  to  free  herself,  the  ancient  woman 
sank  down  beside  one  of  the  pillars  of  the  portal.  The 
key  of  the  Province  House  fell  from  her  grasp,  and 
clanked  against  the  stone. 

"  I  have  been  faithful  unto  death,'5  murmured  she. 
"  God  save  the  King !  " 

"  She  hath  done  her  office  !  "  said  Hancock,  solemnly. 
"  We  will  follow  her  reverently  to  the  tomb  of  her  an- 
cestors ;  and  then,  my  fellow-citizens,  onward,  —  oil  ward ! 
We  are  no  longer  children  of  the  Past !  " 


As  the  old  loyalist  concluded  his  narrative,  the  enthu- 
siasm which  had  been  fitfully  flashing  within  his  sunken 
eyes,  and  quivering  across  his  wrinkled  visage,  faded 
away,  as  if  all  the  lingering  fire  of  his  soul  were  extin- 
guished. Just  then,  too,  a  lamp  upon  the  mantel-piece 
threw  out  a  dying  gleam,  which  vanished  as  speedily  as 
it  shot  upward,  compelling  our  eyes  to  grope  for  one 
another's  features  by  the  dim  glow  of  the  hearth.  With 
such  a  lingering  fire,  methought,  with  such  a  dying  gleam, 
had  the  glory  of  the  ancient  system  vanished  from  the 
Province  House,  when  the  spirit  of  old  Esther  Dudley 
took  its  flight.  And  now,  again,  the  clock  of  the  Old 
South  threw  its  voice  of  ages  on  the  breeze,  knolling  the 
hourly  knell  of  the  Past,  crying  out  far  and  wide  through 
the  multitudinous  city,  and  filling  our  ears,  as  we  sat  in 
the  dusky  chamber,  with  its  reverberating  depth  of  tone. 


76  TWICE-TOLD   TALES. 

In  that  same  mansion,  —  in  that  very  chamber,  —  what 
a  volume  of  history  had  been  told  off  into  hours,  by  the 
same  voice  that  was  now  trembling  in  the  air.  Many  a 
governor  had  heard  those  midnight  accent  s,  and  longed 
to  exchange  his  stately  cares  for  slumber.  And  as  for 
mine  host,  and  Mr.  Bela  Tiffany,  and  the  old  loyalist, 
and  me,  we  had  babbled  about  dreams  of  the  past,  until 
we  almost  fancied  that  the  clock  was  still  striking  in  a 
bygone  century.  Neither  of  us  would  have  wondered, 
had  a  hoop-petticoated  phantom  of  Esther  Dudley  tottered 
into  the  chamber,  walking  her  rounds  in  the  hush  of 
midnight,  as  of  yore,  and  motioned  us  to  quench  the 
fading  embers  of  the  fire,  and  leave  the  historic  precincts 
to  herself  and  her  kindred  shades.  But  as  no  such  vision 
was  vouchsafed,  I  retired  unbidden,  and  would  advise 
Mr.  Tiffany  to  lay  hold  of  another  auditor,  being  resolved 
not  to  show  my  face  in  the  Province  House  for  a  good 
while  hence,  —  if  ever. 


THE   HAUNTED   MIND. 

ill  AT  a  singular  moment  is  the  first  one,  when 
you  have  hardly  begun  to  recollect  yourself 
after  starting  from  midnight  slumber !  By  un- 
closing your  eyes  so  suddenly,  you  seem  to  have  surprised 
the  personages  of  your  dream  in  full  convocation  round 
your  bed,  and  catcli  one  broad  glance  at  them  before  they 
can  flit  into  obscurity.  Or,  to  vary  the  metaphor,  you 
find  yourself,  for  a  single  instant,  wide  awake  in  that 
realm  of  illusions,  whither  sleep  has  been  the  passport, 
and  behold  its  ghostly  inhabitants  and  w^ondrous  scenery, 
with  a  perception  of  their  strangeness,  such  as  you  never 
attain  while  the  dream  is  undisturbed.  The  distant  sound 
of  a  church-clock  is  borne  faintly  on  the  wind.  You 
question  with  yourself,  half  seriously,  whether  it  has 
stolen  to  your  waking  ear  from  some  gray  tower,  that 
stood  within  the  precincts  of  your  dream.  While  yet  in 
suspense,  another  clock  flings  its  heavy  clang  over  tho 
slumbering  town,  with  so  full  and  distinct  a  sound,  and 
such  a  long  murmur  in  the  neighboring  air,  that  you  are 
certain  it  must  proceed  from  the  steeple  at  the  nearest 
corner.  You  count  the  strokes  —  one  —  two,  and  there 
they  cease,  with  a  booming  sound,  like  the  gathering  of 
a  third  stroke  within  the  bell. 


78  TWICE-TOLD   TALES. 

If  you  could  choose  an  hour  of  wakefulness  out  of  the 
whole  night,  it  would  be  this.  Since  your  sober  bedtime, 
at  eleven,  you  have  had  rest  enough  to  take  off  the  press- 
ure of  yesterday's  fatigue ;  while  before  you,  till  the  sun 
comes  from  "  far  Cathay"  to  brighten  your  window,  there 
is  almost  the  space  of  a  summer  night ;  one  hour  to  be 
spent  in  thought,  with  the  mind's  eye  half  shut,  and  two 
in  pleasant  dreams,  and  two  in  that  strangest  of  enjoy- 
ments, the  forgetfulness  alike  of  joy  and  woe.  The 
moment  of  rising  belongs  to  another  period  of  time,  and 
appears  so  distant,  that  the  plunge  out  of  a  warm  bed 
into  the  frosty  air  cannot  yet  be  anticipated  with  dismay. 
Yesterday  has  already  vanished  among  the  shadows  of  the 
past ;  to-morrow  has  not  yet  emerged  from  the  future. 
You  have  found  an  intermediate  space,  where  the  busi- 
ness of  life  does  not  intrude ;  where  the  passing  moment 
lingers,  and  becomes  truly  the  present ;  a  spot  where 
Father  Time,  when  he  thinks  nobody  is  watching  him, 
sits  down  by  the  wayside  to  take  breath.  O  that  he 
would  fall  asleep,  and  let  mortals  live  on  without  growing 
older ! 

Hitherto  you  have  lain  perfectly  still,  because  the 
slightest  motion  would  dissipate  the  fragments  of  your 
slumber.  Now,  being  irrevocably  awake,  you  peep 
through  the  half-drawn  window-curtain,  and  observe 
that  the  glass  is  ornamented  with  fanciful  devices  in 
frostwork,  and  that  each  pane  presents  something  like  a 
frozen  dream.  There  will  be  time  enough  to  trace  out  the 
analogy,  while  waiting  the  summons  to  breakfast.  Seen 
through  the  clear  portion  of  the  glass,  where  the  silvery 
mountain-peaks  of  the  frost  scenery  do  not  ascend,  the 
most  conspicuous  object  is  the  steeple,  the  white  spire  of 
which  directs  you  to  the  wintry  lustre  of  the  firmament. 
You  may  almost  distinguish  the  figures  on  the  clock  that 


THE    HAUNTED    MIND.  79 

1ms  just  told  the  hour.  Such  a  frosty  sky,  and  the 
snow-covered  roofs,  and  the  long  vista  of  the  frozen 
street,  all  white,  and  the  distant  water  hardened  into 
rock,  might  make  you  shiver,  even  under  four  blankets 
and  a  woollen  comforter.  Yet  look  at  that  one  glorious 
star !  Its  beams  are  distinguishable  from  all  the  rest, 
and  actually  cast  the  shadow  of  the  casement  on  the  bed, 
with  a  radiance  of  deeper  hue  than  moonlight,  though 
not  so  accurate  an  outline. 

You  sink  down  and  muffle  your  head  in  the  clothes, 
shivering  all  the  while,  but  less  from  bodily  chill  than 
the  bare  idea  of  a  polar  atmosphere.  It  is  too  cold  even 
for  the  thoughts  to  venture  abroad.  You  speculate  on 
the  luxury  of  wearing  out  a  whole  existence  in  bed,  like 
an  oyster  in  its  shell,  content  with  the  sluggish  ecstasy 
of  inaction,  and  drowsily  conscious  of  nothing  but  deli- 
cious warmth,  such  as  you  now  feel  again.  Ah!  that 
idea  has  brought  a  hideous  one  in  its  train.  You  think 
how  the  dead  are  lying  in  their  cold  shrouds  and  narrow 
coffins,  through  the  drear  winter  of  the  grave,  and  can- 
not persuade  your  fancy  that  they  neither  shrink  nor 
shiver,  when  the  snow  is  drifting  over  their  little  hillocks, 
and  the  bitter  blast  howls  against  the  door  of  the  tomb. 
That  gloomy  thought  will  collect  a  gloomy  multitude, 
and  throw  its  complexion  over  your  wakeful  hour. 

In  the  depths  of  every  heart  there  is  a  tomb  and  a 
dungeon,  though  the  lights,  the  music,  and  revelry  above 
may  cause  us  to  forget  their  existence,  and  the  buried 
ones,  or  prisoners  whom  they  hide.  But  sometimes, 
and  oftenest  at  midnight,  these  dark  receptacles  are  flung 
wide  open.  In  an  hour  like  this,  when  the  mind  has  a 
passive  sensibility,  but  no  active  strength ;  when  the 
imagination  is  a  mirror,  imparting  vividness  to  all  ideas, 
without  the  power  of  selecting  or  controlling  them  ;  then 


80  TWICE-TOLD    TALES. 

pray  that  your  griefs  may  slumber,  and  the  brotherhood 
of  remorse  not  break  their  chain.  It  is  too  late  !  A  fu- 
neral train  comes  gliding  by  your  bed,  in  which  Passion 
and  Feeling  assume  bodily  shape,  and  things  of  the  mind 
become  dim  spectres  to  the  eye.  There  is  your  earliest 
Sorrow,  a  pale  young  mourner,  wearing  a  sister's  like- 
ness to  first  love,  sadly  beautiful,  with  a  hallowed  sweet- 
ness in  her  melancholy  features,  and  grace  in  the  flow  of 
her  sable  robe.  Next  appears  a  shade  of  ruined  loveli- 
ness, with  dust  among  her  golden  hair,  and  her  bright 
garments  all  faded  and  defaced,  stealing  from  your 
glance  with  drooping  head,  as  fearful  of  reproach ;  she 
was  your  fondest. Hope,  but  a  delusive  one;  so  call  her 
Disappointment  now.  A  sterner  form  succeeds,  with  a 
brow  of  wrinkles,  a  look  and  gesture  of  iron  authority  ; 
there  is  no  name  for  him  unless  it  be  Fatality,  an  em- 
blem of  the  evil  influence  that  rules  your  fortunes;  a 
demon  to  whom  you  subjected  yourself  by  some  error  at 
the  outset  of  life,  and  were  bound  his  slave  forever,  by 
once  obeying  him.  See  !  those  fiendish  lineaments  gra- 
ven on  the  darkness,  the  writhed  lip  of  scorn,  the  mock- 
ery of  that  living  eye,  the  pointed  finger,  touching  the 
sore  place  in  your  heart !  Do  you  remember  any  act  of 
enormous  folly,  at  which  you  would  blush,  even  in  the 
remotest  cavern  of  the  earth  ?  Then  recognize  your 
SliMme. 

Pass,  wretched  baud !  Well  for  the  wakeful  one, 
if,  riotously  miserable,  a  fiercer  tribe  do  not  surround 
him,  the  devils  of  a  guilty  heart,  that  holds  its  hell 
within  itself.  What  if  Remorse  should  assume  the 
features  of  an  injured  friend  ?  What  if  the  fiend  stiould 
come  in  woman's  garments,  with  a  pale  beauty  amid  sin 
and  desolation,  and  lie  down  by  your  side  ?  What  if  he 
should  stand  at  your  bed's  foot,  in  the  likeness  of  a 


THE    HAUNTED    MIND.  81 

corpse,  with  a  bloody  stain  upon  the  shroud  ?  Sufficient 
without  such  guilt  is  this  nightmare  of  the  soul ;  this 
heavy,  heavy  sinking  of  the  spirits  ;  this  wintry  gloom 
about  the  heart ;  this  indistinct  horror  of  the  mind, 
blending  itself  with  the  darkness  of  the  chamber. 

By  a  desperate  effort,  you  start  upright,  breaking  from 
a  sort  of  conscious  sleep,  and  gazing  wildly  round  the 
bed,  as  if  the  fiends  were  anywhere  but  in  your  haunted 
mind.  At  the  same  moment,  the  slumbering  embers  on 
the  hearth  send  forth  a  gleam  which  palely  illuminates 
the  whole  outer  room,  and  flickers  through  the  door  of 
the  bedchamber,  but  cannot  quite  dispel  its  obscurity. 
Your  eye  searches  for  whatever  may  remind  you  of  the 
living  world.  With  eager  minuteness,  you  take  note  of 
the  table  near  the  fireplace,  the  book  with  an  ivory  knife 
between  its  leaves,  the  unfolded  letter,  the  hat,  and  the 
fallen  glove.  Soon  the  flame  vanishes,  and  with  it  the 
whole  scene  is  gone,  though  its  image  remains  an  instant 
in  your  mind's  eye,  when  darkness  has  swallowed  the 
reality.  Throughout  the  chamber,  there  is  the  same  ob- 
scurity as  before,  but  not  the  same  gloom  within  your 
breast.  As  your  head  falls  back  upon  the  pillow,  you 
think  —  in  a  whisper  be  it  spoken  —  how  pleasant  in 
these  night  solitudes  would  be  the  rise  and  fall  of  a 
softer  breathing  than  your  own,  the  slight  pressure  of  a 
tenderer  bosom,  the  quiet  throb  of  a  purer  heart,  impart- 
ing its  peace  fulness  to  your  troubled  one,  as  if  the  fond 
sleeper  were  involving  you  in  her  dream. 

Her  influence  is  over  you,  though  she  have  no  exist- 
ence but  in  that  momentary  image.  You  sink  down  in 
a  flowery  spot,  on  the  borders  of  sleep  and  wakefulness, 
while  your  thoughts  rise  before  you  in  pictures,  all  dis- 
connected, yet  all  assimilated  by  a  pervading  gladsome- 
ness  and  beauty.  The  wheeling  of  gorgaous  squadrons, 
4*  -F" 


82  TWICE-TOLD   TALES. 

that  glitter  in  the  sun,  is  succeeded  by  the  merriment 
of  children  round  the  door  of  a  school-house,  beneath 
the  glimmering  shadow  of  old  trees,  at  the  corner  of  a 
rustic  lane.  You  stand  in  the  sunny  rain  of  a  summer 
shower,  and  wander  among  the  sunny  trees  of  an  autum- 
nal wood,  and  look  upward  at  the  brightest  of  all  rain- 
bows, overarching  the  unbroken  sheet  of  snow,  on  the  • 
American  side  of  Niagara.  Your  mind  struggles  pleas- 
antly between  the  dancing  radiance  round  the  hearth  of 
a  young  man  and  his  recent  bride,  and  the  twittering 
flight  of  birds  in  spring,  about  their  new-made  nest. 
You  feel  the  merry  bounding  of  a  ship  before  the 
breeze;  and  watch  the  tuneful  feet  of  rosy  girls,  as 
they  twine  their  last  and  merriest  dance  in  a  splendid 
ballroom ;  and  find  yourself  in  the  brilliant  circle  of  a 
crowded  theatre,  as  the  curtain  falls  over  a  light  and 
airy  scene. 

With  an  involuntary  start,  you  seize  hold  on  con- 
sciousness, and  prove  yourself  but  half  awake,  by  run- 
ning a  doubtful  parallel  between  human  life  and  the 
hour  which  has  now  elapsed.  In  both  you  emerge 
from  mystery,  pass  through  a  vicissitude  that  you  can 
but  imperfectly  control,  and  are  borne  onward  to  an- 
other mystery.  Now  comes  the  peal  of  the  distant 
clock,  with  fainter  and  fainter  strokes  as  you  plunge 
further  into  the  wilderness  of  sleep.  It  is  the  knell  of 
a  temporary  death.  Your  spirit  has  departed,  and  strays 
like  a  free  citizen,  among  the  people  of  a  shadowy  world, 
beholding  strange  sights,  yet  without  wonder  or  dismay. 
So  calm,  perhaps,  will  be  the  final  change;  so  undis- 
turbed, as  if  among  familiar  things,  the  entrance  of  the 
soul  to  its  Eternal  home ! 


THE  VILLAGE  UNCLE. 


AN  IMAGINARY  RETROSPECT. 


OME !  another  log  upon  the  hearth.  True,  our 
little  parlor  is  comfortable,  especially  here,  where 
the  old  man  sits  in  his  old  arm-chair;  but  on 
Thanksgiving  night  the  blaze  should  dance  higher  up 
the  chimney,  and  send  a  shower  of  sparks  into  the 
outer  darkness.  Toss  on  an  armful  of  those  dry  oak 
chips,  the  last  relics  of  the  Mermaid's  knee-timbers,  the 
bones  of  your  namesake,  Susan.  Higher  yet,  and  clearer 
be  the  blaze,  till  our  cottage  windows  glow  the  ruddiest 
in  the  village,  and  the  light  of  our  household  mirth 
flash  far  across  the  bay  to  Nahant.  And  now,  come, 
Susan,  come,  my  children,  draw  your  chairs  round  me, 
all  of  you.  There  is  a  dimness  over  your  figures  !  You 
sit  quivering  indistinctly  with  each  motion  of  the  blaze, 
which  eddies  about  you  like  a  flood,  so  that  you  all  have 
the  look  of  visions,  or  people  that  dwell  only  in  the  fire- 
light, aiid  will  vanish  from  existence,  as  completely  as 
your  own  shadows,  when  the  flame  shall  sink  among 
the  embers.  Hark !  let  ma  listen  for  the  swell  of  the 
surf-  it  should  be  audible  a  mile  inland,  on  a  night  like 
this.  Yes ;  there  I  catch  the  sound,  but  only  an  uncer- 
tain murmur,  as  if  a  good  way  dDwn  over  the  beach ; 


84  TWICE-TOLD   TALES. 

though,  by  the  almanac,  it  is  high  tide  at  eight  o'clock, 
'and  the  billows  must  now  be  dashing  within  thirty  yards 
of  our  door.  Ah !  the  old  man's  ears  are  failing  him ; 
•  and  so  is  his  eyesight,  and  perhaps  his  mind ;  else  you 
would  not  all  be  so  shadowy,  in  the  blaze  of  his  Thanks- 
giving fire. 

How  strangely  the  Past  is  peeping  over  the  shoulders 
of  the  Present !  To  judge  by  my  recollections,  it  is  but 
a  few  moments  since  I  sat  in  another  room  ;  yonder 
model  of  a  vessel  was  not  there,  nor  the  old  chest  of 
drawers,  nor  Susan's  profile  and  mine,  in  that  gilt  frame ; 
nothing,  in  short,  except  this  same  fire,  which  glimmered 
on  books,  papers,  and  a  picture,  and  half  discovered  my 
solitary  figure  in  a  looking-glass.  But  it  was  paler  than 
my  rugged  old  self,  and  younger,  too,  by  almost  half  a 
century.  Speak  to  me,  Susan ;  speak,  my  beloved  ones ; 
for  the  scene  is  glimmering  on  my  sight  again,  and  as 
it  brightens  you  fade  away.  O,  I  should  be  loath  to 
lose  my  treasure  of  past  happiness,  and  become  once 
more  what  I  was  then  ;  a  hermit  in  the  depths  of  my 
own  mind;  sometimes  yawning  over  drowsy  volumes, 
and  anon  a  scribbler  of  wearier  trash  than  what  I  read ; 
a  man  who  had  wandered  out  of  the  real  world  and  got 
into  its  shadow,  where  his  troubles,  joys,  and  vicissitudes 
were  of  such  slight  stuff,  that  he  hardly  knew  whether 
he  lived,  or  only  dreamed  of  living.  Thank  Heaven, 
I  am  an  old  man  now,  and  have  done  with  all  such 
vanities ! 

Still  this  dimness  of  mine  eyes !  Come  nearer,  Susan, 
and  stand  before  the  fullest  blaze  of  the  hearth.  Now 
I  behold  you  illuminated  from  head  to  foot,  in  your 
clean  cap  and  decent  gown,  with  the  dear  lock  of  gray 
hair  across  your  forehead,  and  a  quiet  smile  about  your 
mouth,  while  the  eyes  alone  are  concealed,  by  the  led 


THE    VILLAGE    UNCLE.  85 

gleam  of  the  fire  upon  your  spectacles.  There,  you 
made  me  tremble  again !  When  the  flame  quivered, 
my  sweet  Susan,  you  quivered  with  it,  and  grew  indis- 
tinct, as  if  melting  into  the  warm  light,  that  my  last 
glimpse  of  you  might  be  as  visionary  as  the  first  was, 
full  many  a  year  since.  Do  you  remember  it  ?  You 
stood  on  the  little  bridge,  over  the  brook,  that  runs 
across  King's  Beach  into  the  sea.  It  was  twilight ;  the 
waves  rolling  in,  the  wind  sweeping  by,  the  crimson 
clouds  fading  in  the  west,  and  the  silver  moon  bright- 
ening above  the  hill ;  and  on  the  bridge  were  you,  flut- 
tering in  the  breeze  like  a  sea-bird  that  might  skim  away 
at  your  pleasure.  You  seemed  a  daughter  of  the  view- 
less wind,  a  creature  of'  the  ocean  foam  and  the  crimson 
light,  whose  merry  life  was  spent  in  dancing  on  the  crests 
of  the  billows,  that  threw  up  their  spray  to  support  your 
footsteps.  As  I  drew  nearer,  I  fancied  you  akin  to  the 
racs  of  mermaids,  and  thought  how  pleasant  it  would  be 
to  dwell  with  you  among  the  quiet  coves,  in  the  shadow 
of  the  cliffs,  and  to  roam  along  secluded  beaches  of  the 
purest  sand,  and  when  our  northern  shores  grew  bleak, 
to  haunt  the  islands,  green  and  lonely,  far  amid  summer 
seas.  And  yet  it  gladdened  me,  after  all  this  nonsense, 
to  find  you  nothing  but  a  pretty  young  girl,  sadly  per- 
plexed with  the  rude  behavior  of  the  wind  about  your 
petticoats. 

Thus  I  did  with  Susan  as  with  most  other  things  in 
my  earlier  days,  dipping  her  image  into  my  mind  and 
coloring  it  of  a  thousand  fantastic  hues,  before  I  could 
see  her  as  she  really  was.  Now,  Susan,  for  a  sober 
picture  of  our  village  !  It  was  a  small  collection  of 
dwellings  that  seemed  to  have  been  cast  up  by  the 
sea,  with  the  rock-weed  and  marine  plants  that  it  vom- 
its after  a  storm,  or  to  have  come  ashore  among  the 


50  TWICE-TOLD   TALES. 

pipe-staves  and  other  lumber,  which  had  been  washed 
from  the  deek  of  an  Eastern  schooner.  There  was  just 
space  for  the  narrow  and  sandy  street  between  the 
beach  in  front,  and  a  precipitous  hill  that  lifted  its 
rocky  forehead  in  the  rear,  among  a  waste  of  juniper- 
bushes  and  the  wild  growth  of  a  broken  pasture.  The 
village  was  picturesque,  in  the  variety  of  its  edifices, 
though  all  were  rude.  Here  stood  a  little  old  hovel, 
built,  perhaps,  of  drift-wood,  there  a  row  of  boat-houses, 
and  beyond  them  a  two-story  dwelling,  of  dark  and 
weather-beaten  aspect,  the  whole  intermixed  with  one 
or  two  snug  cottages,  painted  white,  a  sufficiency  of 
pigsties,  and  a  shoemaker's  shop.  Two  grocery-stores 
stand  opposite  each  other,  in  the  centre  of  the  village. 
These  were  the  places  of  resort,  at  their  idle  hours,  of 
a  hardy  throng  of  fishermen,  in  red  baize  shirts,  oil- 
cloth trousers,  and  boots  of  brown  leather  covering  the 
whole  leg ;  true  seven-league  boots,  but  fitter  to  Avade 
the  ocean  than  walk  the  earth.  The  wearers  seemed 
amphibious,  as  if  they  did  but  creep  out  of  salt  water 
to  sun  themselves;  nor  would  it  have  been  wonderful 
to  see  their  lower  limbs  covered  with  clusters  of  little 
shellfish,  such  as  cling  to  rocks  and  old  ship-timber 
over  which  the  tide  ebbs  and  flows.  "When  their  fleet 
of  boats  was  weather-bound,  the  butchers  raised  their 
price,  and  the  spit  was  busier  than  the  frying-pan ;  for 
this  was  a  place  of  fish,  and  known  as  such,  to  all  the 
country  round  about ;  the  very  air  was  fishy,  being 
perfumed  with  dead  sculpins,  hardheads,  and  dogfish, 
strewn  plentifully  on  the  beach.  You  see,  children, 
the  village  is  but  little  changed,  since  your  mother  and 
I  were  young. 

How  like  a  dream  it  was,  when  I  bent  over  a  pool 
of  water,  one  pleasant  morning,  and  saw  that  the  ocean 


THE    VILLAGE    UNCLE.  87 

had  dashed  its  spray  over  me  and  made  me  a  fisherman  ! 
There  were  the  tarpauling,  the  baize  shirt,  the  oil-cloth 
trousers  and  seven-league  boots,  and  there  my  own  fea- 
tures, but  so  reddened  with  sunburn  and  sea-breezes, 
that  methought  I  had  another  face,  and  on  other  shoul- 
ders too.  The  sea-gulls  and  the  loons,  and  I,  had  now 
all  one  trade ;  we  skimmed  the  crested  waves  and  sought 
our  prey  beneath  them,  the  man  with  as  keen  enjoy- 
ment as  the  birds.  Always,  when  the  east  grew  purple, 
I  launched  my  dory,  my  little  flat-bottomed  skiff,  and 
rowed  cross-handed  to  Point  Ledge,  the  Middle  Ledge, 
or,  perhaps,  beyond  Egg  Rock ;  often,  too,  did  I  anchor 
off  Dread  Ledge,  a  spot  of  peril  to  ships  unpiloted ;  and 
sometimes  spread  an  adventurous  sail  and  tracked  across 
the  bay  to  South  Shore,  casting  my  lines  in  sight  of 
Scituate.  Ere  nightfall,  I  hauled  my  skiff  high  and  dry 
on  the  beach,  laden  with  red  rock-cod,  or  the  white- 
bellied  ones  of  deep  water ;  haddock,  bearing  the  black 
marks  of  St.  Peter's  fingers  near  tiie  gills ;  the  long- 
bearded  hake,  whose  liver  holds  oil  enough  for  a  mid- 
night lamp;  and  now  and  then  a  mighty  halibut,  with 
a  back  broad  as  my  boat.  In  the  autumn,  I  trolled  and 
caught  those  lovely  fish,  the  mackerel.  When  the  wind 
was  high,  —  when  the  whale-boats,  anchored  off  the 
Point,  nodded  their  slender  masts  at  each  other,  and 
the  dories  pitched  and  tossed  in  'the  surf, — when  Na- 
hant  Beach  was  thundering  three  miles  off,  and  the 
spray  broke  a  hundred  feet  in  air,  round  the  distant 
base  of  Egg  Rock, — when  the  brimful  and  boisterous 
sea  threatened  to  tumble  over  the  street  of  our  village, 
—  then  I  made  a  holiday  on  shore. 

Many  such  a  day  did  I  sit  snugly  in  Mr.  Bartlett's 
store,  attentive  to  the  yarns  of  Uncle  Parker ;  uncle  to 
the  whole  village,  by  right  of  seniority,  but  of  Southern 


88  TWICE-TOLD    TALES. 

blood,  with  no  kindred  in  New  England.  His  figure  is 
before  me  now,  enthroned  upon  a  mackerel-barrel;  a 
lean  old  man,  of  great  height,  but  bent  with  years,  and 
twisted  into  an  uncouth  shape  by  seven  broken  limbs ; 
furrowed  also,  and  weather-worn,  as  if  every  gale,  for 
the  better  part  of  a  century,  had  caught  him  somewhere 
on  the  sea.  He  looked  like  a  harbinger  of  tempest,  a 
shipmate  of  the  Flying  Dutchman.  After  innumerable 
voyages  aboard  men-of-war  and  merchant-men,  fishing- 
schooners  and  chebacco-boats,  the  old  salt  had  become 
master  of  a  handcart,  which  he  daily  trundled  about  the 
vicinity,  and  sometimes  blew  his  fish-horn  through  the 
streets  of  Salem.  One  of  Uncle  Parker's  eyes  had  been 
blown  out  with  gunpowder,  and  the  other  did  but  glim- 
mer in  its  socket.  Turning  it  upward  as  he  spoke,  it 
was  his  delight  to  tell  of  cruises  against  the  French,  and 
battles  with  his  own  shipmates,  when  he  and  an  antago- 
nist used  to  be  seated  astride  of  a  sailor's  chest,  each 
fastened  down  by  a  spike-nail  through  his  trousers,  and 
there  to  fight  it  out.  Sometimes  he  expatiated  on  the 
delicious  flavor  of  the  hagden,  a  greasy  and  goose-like 
fowl,  which  the  sailors  catch  with  hook  and  line  on  the 
Grand  Banks.  He  dwelt  with  rapture  on  an  intermina- 
ble winter  at  the  Isle  of  Sables,  where  he  had  gladdened 
himself,  amid  polar  snows,  with  the  rum  and  sugar  saved 
from  the  wreck  of  a  West  India  schooner.  And  wrath- 
fully  did  he  shake  his  fist,  as  he  related  how  a  party  of 
Cape  Cod  men  had  robbed  him  and  his  companions  of 
their  lawful  spoil,  and  sailed  away  with  every  keg  of  old 
Jamaica,  leaving  him  not  a  drop  to  drown  his  sorrow. 
Villains  they  were,  and  of  that  wicked  brotherhood  who 
are  said  to  tie  lanterns  to  horses'  tails,  to  mislead  the 
mariner  along  the  dangerous  shores  of  the  Cape. 

Even  now  I  seem  to  see  the  group  of  fishermen,  with 


THE    VILLAGE    UNCLE.  89 

that  old  salt  in  the  midst.  One  fellow  sits  on  the  coun- 
ter, a  second  bestrides  an  oil-barrel,  a  third  lolls  at  his 
length  on  a  parcel  of  new  cod-lines,  and  another  has 
planted  the  tarry  seat  of  his  trousers  on  a  heap  of  salt, 
which  will  shortly  be  sprinkled  over  a  lot  of  fish.  They 
are  a  likely  set  of  men.  Some  have  voyaged  to  the  East 
Indies  or  the  Pacific,  and  most  of  them  have  sailed  in 
Marblehead  schooners  to  Newfoundland ;  a  few  have  been 
no  farther  than  the  Middle  Banks,  and  one  or  two  have 
always  fished  along  the  shore ;  but,  as  Uncle  Parker  used 
to  say,  they  have  all  been  christened  in  salt  water,  and 
know  more  than  men  ever  learn  in  the  bushes.  A  curi- 
ous figure,  by  way  of  contrast,  is  a  fish-dealer  from  far- 
up  country,  listening  with  eyes  wide  open  to  narratives 
that  might  startle  Sindbad  the  sailor.  Be  it  well  with 
you,  my  brethren  !  Ye  are  all  gone,  some  to  your  graves 
ashore,  and  others  to  the  depths  of  ocean ;  but  my  faith 
is  strong  that  ye  are  happy  ;  for  whenever  I  behold  your 
forms,  whether  in  dream  or  vision,  each  departed  friend 
is  puffing  his  long-nine,  and  a  mug  of  the  right  black- 
strap goes  round  from  lip  to  lip. 

But  where  was  the  mermaid  in  those  delightful  times  ? 
At  a  certain  window  near  the  centre  of  the  village  ap- 
peared a  pretty  display  of  gingerbread  men  and  horses, 
picture-books  and  ballads,  small  fish-hooks,  pins,  needles,  ' 
sugar-plums,  and  brass  thimbles,  articles  on  which  the 
young  fishermen  used  to  expend  their  money  from  pure 
gallantry.  What  a  picture  was  Susan  behind  the  coun- 
ter !  A  slender  maiden,-  though  the  child  of  rugged 
parents,  she  had  the  slimmest  of  all  waists,  brown  hair 
curling  on  her  neck,  and  a  complexion  rather  pale,  except 
when  the  sea-breeze  flushed  it.  A  few  freckles  became 
beauty-spots  beneath  her  eyelids.  How  was  it,  Susan, 
that  you  talked  and  acted  so  carelessly,  yet  always  for  the 


90  TWICE-TOLD   TALES. 

best,  doing  whatever  was  right  iii  your  own  eyes,  and  never 
once  doing  wrong  in  mine,  nor  shocked  a  taste  that  had 
been  morbidly  sensitive  till  now  ?  And  whence  had  you 
that  happiest  gift,  of  brightening  every  topic  with  an  un- 
sought gayety,  quiet  but  irresistible,  so  that  even  gloomy 
spirits  felt  your  sunshine,  and  did  not  shrink  from  it  ? 
Nature  wrought  the  charm.  She  made  you  a  frank,  sim- 
ple, kind-hearted,  sensible,  and  mirthful  girl.  Obeying 
nature,  you  did  free  things  without  indelicacy,  displayed 
a  nuddcn's  thoughts  to  every  eye,  and  proved  yourself  as 
innocent  as  naked  Eve. 

It  was  beautiful  to  observe,  how  her  simple  and 
happy  nature  mingled  itself  with  mine.  She  kindled  a 
domestic  fire  within  my  heart,  and  took  up  her  dwell- 
ing there,  even  in  that  chill  and  lonesome  cavern  hung 
round  with  glittering  icicles  of  fancy.  She  gave  me 
warmth  of  feeling,  while  the  influence  of  my  mind  made 
her  contemplative.  I  taught  her  to  love  the  moonlight 
hour,  when  the  expanse  of  the  encircled  bay  was  smooth 
as  a  great  mirror  and  slept  in  a  transparent  shadow  ; 
while  beyond  Nahant,  the  wind  rippled  the  dim  ocean 
into  a  dreamy  brightness,  which  grew  faint  afar  off,  with- 
out becoming  gloomier.  I  held  her  hand  and  pointed 
to  the  long  surf  wave,  as  it  rolled  calmly  on  the  beach,  in 
an  unbroken  line  of  silver ;  we  were  silent  together,  till 
its  deep  and  peaceful  murmur  had  swept  by  us.  When 
the.  Sabbath  sun  shone  down  into  the  recesses  of  the 
cliffs,  I  led  the  mermaid  thither,  and  told  her  that  those 
huge,  gray,  shattered  rocks,  and  her  native  sea,  that 
raged  forever  like  a  storm  against  them,  and  her  own 
slender  beauty,  in  so  stern  a  scene,  were  all  combined 
into  a  strain  of  poetry.  But  on  the  Sabbath  eve,  when 
her  mother  had  gone  early  to  bed,  and  her  gentle  sister 
had  smiled  and  left  us,  as  we  sat  alone  by  the  quiet  hearth, 


THE    VILLAGE    UNCLE.  91 

with  household  tilings  around,  it  was  her  turn  to  make 
me  feel  that  here  was  a  deeper  poetry,  and  that  this  was 
the  dearest  hour  of  all.  Thus  went  on  our  wooing,  till 
I  had  shot  wild-fowl  enough  to  feather  our  bridal  bed, 
and  the  Daughter  of  the  Sea  was  mine. 

I  built  a  cottage  for  Susan  and  myself,  and  made  a 
gateway  in  the  form  of  a  Gothic  arch,  by  setting  up  a 
whale's  jaw-bones.  We  bought  a  heifer  with  her  first 
calf,  and  had  a  little  garden  on  the  hillside,  to  supply  us 
with  potatoes  and  green  sauce  for  our  fish.  Our  parlor, 
small  and  neat,  was  ornamented  with  our  two  profiles  in 
one  gilt  frame,  and  with  shells  and  pretty  pebbles  on  the 
mantel-piece,  selected  from  the  sea's  treasury  of  such 
things,  on  Nahant  Beach.  On  the  desk,  beneath  the 
looking-glass,  lay  the  Bible,  which  I  had  begun  to  read 
aloud  at  the  Book  of  Genesis,  and  the  singing-book  that 
Susan  used  for  her  evening  psalm.  Except  the  almanac, 
we  had  no  other  literature.  All  that  I  heard  of  books, 
was  when  an  Indian  history,  or  tale  of  shipwreck,  was 
sold  by  a  pedler  or  wandering  subscription-man,  to  some 
one  in  the  village,  and  read  through  its  owner's  nose  to 
a  slumberous  auditory.  Like  my  brother  fishermen,  I 
grew  into  the  belief  that  all  human  erudition  was  col- 
lected in  our  pedagogue,  whose  green  spectacles  and 
solemn  phiz,  as  he  passed  to  his  little  school-house,  amid 
a  waste  of  sand,  might  have  gained  him  a  diploma  from 
any  college  in  New  England.  In  truth  I  dreaded  him. 
When  our  children  were  old  enough  to  claim  his  'care, 
you  remember,  Susan,  how  I  frowned,  though  you  were 
pleased,  at  this  learned  man's  encomiums  on  their  pro- 
ficiency. I  feared  to  trust  them  even  with  the  alphabet ; 
it  was  the  key  to  a  fatal  treasure. 

But  I  loved  to  lead  them  by  their  little  hands  along 
the  beach,  and  point  to  nature  in  the  vast  and  the  minute, 


92  TWICE-TOLD   TALES. 

the  sky,  the  sea,  the  green  earth,  the  pebbles,  and  the 
shells.  Then  did  I  discourse  of  the  mighty  works  and 
coextensive  goodness  of  the  Deity,  with  the  simple  wis- 
dom of  a  man  whose  mind  had  profited  by  lonely  days 
upon  the  deep,  and  his  heart  by  the  strong  and  pure 
aflections  of  his  evening  home.  Sometimes  my  voice 
lost  itself  in  a  tremulous  depth ;  for  I  felt  His  eye  upon 
ine  as  I  spoke.  Once,  while  my  wife  and  all  of  us  were 
gazing  at  ourselves,  in  the  mirror  left  by  the  tide  in  a 
hollow  of  the  sand,  I  pointed  to  tlie  pictured  heaven 
below,  and  bade  her  observe  how  religion  was'  strewn 
everywhere  in  our  path;  since  even  a  casual  pool  of 
water  recalled  the  idea  of  that  home  whither  we  were 
travelling,  to  rest  forever  with  our  children.  Suddenly, 
your  image,  Susan,  and  all  the  little  faces  made  up  of 
yours  and  mine,  seemed  to  fade  away  and  vanish  around 
me,  leaving  a  pale  visage  like  my  own  of  former  days 
within  the  frame  of  a  large  looking-glass.  Strange  illu- 
sion! 

My  life  glided  on,  the  past  appearing  to  mingle  with 
the  present  and  absorb  the  future,  till  the  whole  lies 
before  me  at  a  glance.  My  manhood  has  long  been 
waning  with  a  stanch  decay ;  my  earlier  contemporaries, 
after  lives  of  unbroken  health,  are  all  at  rest,  without 
having  known  the  weariness  of  later  age ;  and  now,  with 
a  wrinkled  forehead  and  thin  white  hair  as  badges  of 
my  dignity,  I  have  become  the  patriarch,  the  Uncle  of  the 
village.  I  love  that  name;  it  widens  the  circle  of  my 
sympathies ;  it  joins  all  the  youthful  to  my  household,  in 
the  kindred  of  affection. 

Like  Uncle  Parker,  whose  rheumatic  bones  were  dashed 
against  Egg  Hock,  full  forty  years  ago,  I  am  a  spinner 
of  long  yarns.  Seated  on  the  gunwale  of  a  dory,  or  on 
the  sunny  side  of  a  boat-house,  where  the  warmth  is 


THE    VILLAGE    UNCLE.  93 

grateful  to  my  limbs,  or  by  my  own  hearth,  when  a  friend 
or  two  are  there,  I  overflow  with  talk,  and  yet  am  never 
tedious.  With  a  broken  voice  I  give  utterance  to  much 
wisdom.  Such,  Heaven  be  praised !  is  the  vigor  of  my 
faculties,  that  many  a  forgotten  usage,  and  traditions 
ancient  in  my  youth,  and  e.arly  adventures  of  myself  or 
others,  hitherto  effaced  by  things  more  recent,  acquire 
new  distinctness  in  my  memory.  I  remember  the  happy 
days  when  the  haddock  were  more  numerous  on  all  the 
fishing-grounds  than  sculpins  in  the  surf;  when  the  d^ep- 
water  cod  swam  close  in  shore,  and  the  dogfish,  jpth  his 
poisonous  horn,  had  not  learned  to  take  the  hook.  I  can 
number  every  equinoctial  storm,  in  which  the  sea  has 
overwhelmed  the  street,  flooded  the  cellars  of  the  villaga, 
and  hissed  upon  our  kitchen  hearth.  I  give  the  history 
of  the  great  whale  that  was  landed  on  Whale  Beach,  and 
whose  jaws,  being  now  my  gateway,  will  last  for  ages 
after  my  coffin  shall  have  passed  beneath  them.  Thence 
it  is  an  easy  digression  to  the  halibut,  scarcely  smaller 
than  the  whale,  which  ran  out  six  cod-lines,  and  hauled 
my  dory  to  the  mouth  of  Boston  Harbor,  before  I  could 
touch  him  with  the  gaff. 

If  melancholy  accidents  be  the  theme  of  conversation, 
I  tell  how  a  friend  of  mine  was  taken  out  of  his  boat  by 
an  enormous  shark ;  and  the  sad,  true  tale  of  a  young 
man  on  the  eve  of  marriage,  who  had  been  nine  days 
missing,  when  his  drowned  body  floated  into  the  very 
pathway,  on  Marblehead  Neck,  that  had  often  led  him 
to  the  dwelling  of  his  bride ;  as  if  the  dripping  corpse 
would  have  come  where  the  mourner  was.  With  such 
awful  fidelity  did  that  lover  return  to  fulfil  his  vows ! 
Another  favorite  story  is  of  a  crazy  maiden,  who  con- 
versed with  angels  and  had  the  gift  of  prophecy,  and 
whom  all  the  village  loved  and  pitied,  though  she  went 


94  TWICE-TOLD   TALES. 

from  door  to  door  accusing  us  of  sin,  exhorting  to 
repentance,  and  foretelling  our  destruction  by  flood  or 
earthquake.  If  the  young  men  boast  their  knowledge 
of  the  ledges  and  sunken  rocks,  I  speak  of  pilots,  who 
knew  the  wind  by  its  scent  and  the  wave  by  its  taste, 
and  could  have  steered  blindfold  to  any  port  between 
Boston  and  Mount  Desert,  guided  only  by  the  rote  of 
the  shore  ;  the  peculiar  sound  of  the  surf  on  each  island, 
beach,  and  line  of  rocks,  along  the  coast.  Thus  do  I 
talk,  and  all  my  auditors  grow  wise,  while  they  deem  it 
pastime. 

I  recollect  no  happier  portion  of  my  life,  than  this,  my 
calm  old  age.  It  is  like  the  sunny  and  sheltered  slope  of 
a  valley,  where,  late  in  the  autumn,  the  grass  is  greener 
than  in  August,  and  intermixed  with  golden  dandelions, 
that  have  not  been  seen  till  now,  since  the  first  warmth 
of  the  year.  But  with  me,  the  verdure  and  the  flowers 
are  not  frostbitten  in  the  midst  of  winter.  A  playfulness 
has  revisited  my  mind  ;  a  sympathy  with  the  young  and 
gay ;  an  unpainful  interest  in  the  business  of  others ;  a 
light  and  wandering  curiosity ;  arising,  perhaps,  from  the 
sense  that  my  toil  on  earth  is  ended,  and  the  brief  hour 
till  bedtime  may  be  spent  in  play.  Still,  I  have  fancied 
that  there  is  a  depth  of  feeling  and  reflection,  under  this 
superficial  levity,  peculiar  to  one  who  has  lived  long,  and 
is  soon  to  die. 

Show  me  anything  that  would  make  an  infant  smile, 
and  you  shall  behold  a  gleam  of  mirth  over  the  hoary 
ruin  of  my  visage.  I  can  spend  a  pleasant  hour  in  the 
sun,  watching  the  sports  of  the  village  children,  on  the 
edge  of  the  surf;  now  they  chase  the  retreating  wave  far 
down  over  the  wet  sand  ;  now  it  steals  softly  up  to  kiss 
their  naked  feet ;  now  it  comes  onward  with  threatening 
front,  aud  roars  after  the  laughing  crew,  as  they  scamper 


THE    VILLAGE    UNCLE.  95 

beyond  its  reach.  Why  should  not  an  old  man  be  merry 
too,  when  the  great  sea  is  at  play  with  those  little  chil- 
dren ?  I  delight,  also,  to  follow  in  the  wake  of  a  pleasure- 
party  of  young  men  and  girls,  strolling  along  the  beach 
after  an  early  supper  at  the  Point.  Here,  with  hand- 
kerchiefs at  nose,  they  bend  over  a  heap  of  eel-grass,  en- 
tangled in  which  is  a  dead  skate,  so  oddly  accoutred  with 
two  legs  and  a  long  tail,  that  they  mistake  him  for  a 
drowned  animal.  A  few  steps  farther,  the  ladies  scream, 
and  the  gentlemen  make  ready  to  protect  them  against  a 
young  shark  of  the  dogfish  kind,  rolling  with  a  life-like 
motion  in  the  tide  that  has  thrown  him  up.  Next,  they 
are  smit  with  wonder  at  the  black  shells  of  a  wagon-load 
of  live  lobsters,  packed  in  rock-weed  for  the  country  mar- 
ket. And  when  they  reach  the  fleet  of  dories,  just  hauled 
ashore  after  the  day's  fishing,  how  do  I  laugh  in  my  sleeve, 
and  sometimes  roar  outright,  at  the  simplicity  of  these 
young  folks  and  the  sly  humor  of  the  fishermen!  In 
winter,  when  our  village  is  thrown  into  a  bustle  by  the 
arrival  of  perhaps  a  score  of  country  dealers,  bargaining 
for  frozen  fish,  to  be  transported  hundreds  of  miles,  and 
eaten  fresh  in  Vermont  or  Canada,  I  am  a  pleased  but 
idle  spectator  in  the  throng.  "For  I  launch  my  boat  no 
more. 

When  the  shore  was  solitary,  I  have  found  a  pleasure 
that  seemed  even  to  exalt  my  mind,  in  observing  the 
sports  or  contentions  of  two  gulls,  as  they  wheeled  and 
hovered  about  each  other,  with  hoarse  screams,  one  mo- 
ment flapping  on  the  foam  of  the  wave,  and  then  soaring 
aloft,  till  their  white  bosoms  melted  into  the  upper  sun- 
shine. In  the  calm  of  the  summer  sunset,  I  drag  my 
aged  limbs,  with  a  little  ostentation  of  activity,  because  I 
am  so  old,  up  to  the  rocky  brow  of  the  hill.  There  I  see 
the  white  sails  of  many  a  vessel,  outward  bound  or  home- 


96  TWICE-TOLD    TALES. 

ward  from  afar,  and  the  black  trail  of  a  vapor  behind  the 
eastern  steamboat ;  there,  too,  is  the  sun,  going  down, 
but  not  in  gloom,  and  there  the  illimitable  ocean  mingling 
with  the  sky,  to  remind  me  of  eternity. 

But  sweetest  of  all  is  the  hour  of  cheerful  musing  and 
pleasant  talk,  that  comes  between  the  dusk  and  the  lighted 
candle,  by  my  glowing  fireside.  And  never,  even  on  the 
first  Thanksgiving  night,  when  Susan  and  I  sat  alone  with 
our  hopes,  nor  the  second,  when  a  stranger  had  been  sent 
to  gladden  us,  and  be  the  visible  image  of  our  affection, 
did  I  feel  such  joy  as  now.  All  that  belong  to  me  are 
here;  Death  has  taken  none,  nor  Disease  kept  them 
away,  nor  Strife  divided  them  from  their  parents  or  each 
other ;  with  neither  poverty  nor  riches  to  disturb  them, 
nor  the  misery  of  desires  beyond  their  lot,  they  have  kept 
New  England's  festival  round  the  patriarch's  board.  For 
I  am  a  patriarch  !  Here  I  sit  among  my  descendants,  in 
my  old  arm-chair  and  immemorial  corner,  while  the  fire- 
light throws  an  appropriate  glory  round  my  venerable 
frame.  Susan !  My  children  !  Something  whispers  me, 
that  this  happiest  hour  must  be  the  final  one,  and  that 
nothing  remains  but  to  bless  you  all,  and  depart  with  a 
treasure  of  recollected  joys  to  heaven.  Will  you  meet 
me  there  ?  Alas  !  your  figures  grow  indistinct,  fading 
into  pictures  on  the  air,  and  now  to  fainter  outlines,  while 
the  fire  is  glimmering  on  the  walls  of  a  familiar  room,  and 
shows  the  book  that  I  flung  down,  and  the  sheet  that  I 
left  half  written,  some  fifty  years  ago.  I  lift  my  eyes  to 
the  looking-glass,  and  perceive  myself  alone,  unless  those 
be  the  mermaid's  features,  retiring  into  the  depths  of  the 
mirror,  with  a  tender  and  melancholy  smile. 

Ah  !  one  feels  a  dullness,  not  bodily,  but  about  the 
heart,  and,  moreover,  a  foolish  dread  of  looking  behind 
him,  after  these  pastimes.  I  can  imagine  precisely  how 


THE    VILLAGE    UXCLE.  97 

a  magician  would  sit  down  in  gloom  and  terror,  after 
dismissing  the  shadows  that  had  personated  dead  or  dis- 
tant people,  and  stripping  his  cavern  of  the  unreal  splendor 
which  had  changed  it  to  a  palace.  And  now  for  a  moral 
to  my  revery.  Shall  it  be,  that,  since  fancy  can  create 
so  bright  a  dream  of  happiness,  it  were  better  to  dream 
on  from  youth  to  age,  than  to  awake  and  strive  doubt- 
fully for  something  real !  O,  the  slight  tissue  of  a  dream 
can  no  more  preserve  us  from  the  stern  reality  of  misfor- 
tune, than  a  robe  of  cobweb  could  repel  the  wintry  blast. 
Be  this  the  moral,  then.  In  chaste  and  warm  affections, 
humble  wishes,  and  honest  toil  for  some  useful  end,  there 
is  health  for  the  mind,  and  quiet  for  the  heart,  the  pros- 
pect of  a  happy  life,  and  the  fairest  hope  of  hsaven. 


THE  AMBITIOUS  GUEST. 

NE  September  night,  a  family  lind  gathered 
round  their  hearth,  and  piled  it  high  with  the 
drift-wood  of  mountain  streams,  the  dry  cones 
of  the  pine,  and  the  splintered  ruins  of  great  trees,  that 
had  come  crashing  down  the  precipice.  Up  the  chimney 
roared  the  fire,  and  brightened  the  room  with  its  broad 
blaze.  The  faces  of  the  father  and  mother  had  a  sober 
gladness  ;  the  children  laughed ;  the  eldest  daughter  was 
the  image  of  Happiness  at  seventeen ;  and  the  aged 
grandmother,  who  sat  knitting  in  the  warmest  place,  was 
the  image  of  Happiness  grown  old.  They  had  found 
the  "herb,  heart's-ease,"  in  the  bleakest  spot  of  all 
New  England.  This  family  were  situated  in  the  Notch 
of  the  White  Hills,  where  the  wind  was  sharp  through- 
out the  year,  and  pitilessly  cold  in  the  winter,  —  giving 
their  cottage  all  its  fresh  inclemency,  before  it  descended 
on  the  valley  of  the  Saco.  They  dwelt  in  a  cold  spot 
and  a  dangerous  one ;  for  a  mountain  towered  above 
their  heads,  so  steep,  that  the  stones  would  often  rumble 
down  its  sides,  and  startle  them  at  midnight. 

The  daughter  had  just  uttered  some  simple  jest,  that 
filled  them  all  with  mirth,  when  the  wind  came  through 
the  Notch  and  seemed  to  pause  before  their  cottage,  — 
rattling  the  door,  with  a  sound  of  wailing  and  lamenta- 


THE   AMBITIOUS    GUEST.  99 

tion,  before  it  passed  into  the  valley.  For  a  moment, 
it  saddened  them,  though  there  was  nothing  unusual  in 
the  tones.  But  the  family  were  glad  again,  when  they 
perceived  that  the  latch  was  lifted  by  some  traveller, 
whose  footsteps  had  been  unheard  amid  the  dreary  blast, 
which  heralded  his  approach,  and  wailed  as  he  was  en- 
tering, and  went  moaning  away  from  the  door. 

Though  they  dwelt  in  such  a  solitude,  these  people 
held  daily  converse  with  the  world.  The  romantic  pass 
of  the  Notch  is  a  great  artery,  through  which  the  life- 
blood  of  internal  commerce  is  continually  throbbing,  be- 
tween Maine  on  one  side  and  the  Green  Mountains  and 
the  shores  of  the  St.  Lawrence  on  the  other.  The  stage- 
coach always  drew  up  before  the  door  of  the  cottage. 
Tlie  wayfarer,  with  no  companion  but  his  staff,  paused 
lure  to  exchange  a  word,  that  the  sense  of  loneliness 
might  not  utterly  overcome  him,  ere  he  could  pass 
through  the  cleft  of  the  mountain,  or  reach  the  first 
house  in  the  valley.  And  here  the  teamster,  on  his  way 
to  Portland  market,  would  put  up  for  the  night ;  and,  if 
a  bachelor,  might  sit  an  hour  beyond  the  usual  bedtime, 
and  steal  a  kiss  from  the  mountain-maid,  at  parting.  It 
was  one  of  those  primitive  taverns,  where  the  traveller 
pays  only  for  food  and  lodging,  but  meets  with  a  homely 
kindness,  beyond  all  price.  When  the  footsteps  were 
heard,  therefore,  between  the  outer  door  and  the  inner 
one,  the  whole  family  rose  up,  grandmother,  children, 
and  all,  as  if  about  to  welcome  some  one  who  belonged 
to  them,  and  whose  fate  was  linked  with  theirs. 

The  door  was  opened  by  a  young  man.  His  face  at 
first  wore  the  melancholy  expression,  almost  despond- 
ency, of  one  who  travels  a  wild  and  bleak  road,  at 
nightfall  and  alone,  but  soon  brightened  up.  when  he 
saw  the  kindly  warmth  of  his  reception.  He  felt  his 


100  TWICE-TOLD    TALES. 

heart  spring  forward  to  meet  them  all,  from  the  old 
woman,  who  wiped  a  chair  with  her  apron,  to  the  little 
child  that  held  out  its  arms  to  him.  One  glance  and 
smile  placed  the  stranger  on  a  footing  of  innocent  famil- 
iarity with  the  eldest  daughter. 

"  Ah,  this  fire  is  the  right  thing  !  "  cried  he  ;  "  espe- 
cially when  there  is  such  a  pleasant  circle  round  it.  I 
am  quite  benumbed  ;  for  the  Notch  is  just  like  the  pipe 
of  a  great  pair  of  bellows  ;  it  has  blown  a  terrible  blast 
in  rny  face,  all  the  way  from  Bartlett." 

"Then  you  are  going  towards  Vermont?"  said  the 
master  of  the  house,  as  he  helped  to  take  a  light  knap- 
sack off  the  young  man's  shoulders. 

"  Yes  ;  to  Burlington,  and  far  enough  beyond,"  re- 
plied he.  "  I  meant  to  have  been  at  Ethan  Crawford's 
to-night ;  but  a  pedestrian  lingers  along  such  a  road  as 
this.  It  is  no  matter ;  for,  when  I  saw  this  good  fire, 
and  all  your  cheerful  faces,  I  felt  as  if  you  had  kindled 
it  on  purpose  for  me,  and  were  waiting  my  arrival.  So 
I  shall  sit  down  among  you,  and  make  myself  at  home." 

The  frank-hearted  stranger  had  just  drawn  his  chair 
to  the  fire,  when  something  like  a  heavy  footstep  was 
heard  without,  rushing  down  the  steep  side  of  the  moun- 
tain, as  with  long  and  rapid  strides,  and  taking  such  a 
leap,  in  passing  the  cottage,  as  to  strike  the  opposite 
precipice.  The  family  held  their  breath,  because  they 
knew  the  sound,  and  their  guest  held  his,  by  instinct. 

"  The  old  mountain  has  thrown  a  stone  at  us,  for  fear 
we  should  forget  him,"  said  the  landlord,  recovering 
himself.  "  He  sometimes  nods  his  head,  and  threatens 
to  come  down ;  but  we  are  old  neighbors,  and  agree 
together  pretty  well,  upon  the  whole.  Besides,  we  have 
a  sure  place  of  refuge,  hard  by,  if  he  should  be  coming  in 
good  earnest." 


THE    AMBITIOUS    GUEST.  101 

Let  us  now  suppose  the  stranger  to  have  finished  his 
supper  of  bear's  meat ;  and,  by  his  natural  felicity  of 
manner,  to  have  placed  himself  on  a  footing  of  kindness 
with  the  whole  family,  so  that  they  talked  as  freely  to- 
gether, as  if  he  belonged  to  their  mount ain  brood.  He 
was  of  a  proud,  yet  gentle  spirit,  —  haughty  and  reserved 
among  the  rich  and  great ;  but  ever  rjeady  to  stoop  his 
head  to  the  lowly  cottage  door,  and  be  like  a  brother  or 
a  son  at  the  poor  man's  fireside.  In  the  household  of 
the  Notch,  he  found  warmth  and  simplicity  of  feeling, 
the  pervading  intelligence  of  New  England,  and  a  poetry 
of  native  growth,  which  they  had  gathered,  when  they 
little  thought  of  it,  from  the  mountain  peaks  and  chasms, 
.and  at  the  very  threshold  of  their  romantic  and  dangerous 
abode.  He  had  travelled  far  and  alone  ;  his  whole  life, 
indeed,  had  been  a  solitary  path  ;  for,  with  the  lofty  cau- 
tion of  his  nature,  he  had  kept  himself  apart  from  those 
who  might  otherwise  have  been  his  companions.  The 
family,  too,  though  so  kind  and  hospitable,  had  that  con- 
sciousness of  unity  among  themselves,  and  separation 
from  the  world  at  large,  which,  in  every  domestic  circle, 
should  still  keep  a  holy  place,  where  no  stranger  may  in- 
trude. But,  this  evening,  a  prophetic  sympathy  impelled 
the  refined  and  educated  youth  to  pour  out  his  heart 
before  the  simple  mountaineers,  and  constrained  them  to 
answer  him  with  the  same  free  confidence.  And  thus  it 
should  have  been.  Is  not  the  kindred  of  a  common  fate 
a  closer  tie  than  that  of  birth  ? 

The  secret  of  the  young  man's  character  was,  a  high 
and  abstracted  ambition.  He  could  have  borne  to  live 
an  undistinguished  life,  but  not  to  be  forgotten  in  the 
grave.  Yearning  desire  had  been  transformed  to  hope  ; 
and  hope,  long  cherished,  had  become  like  certainty,  that, 
obscurely  as  he  journeyed  now,  a  glory  was  to  beam  on 


102  TWICE-TOLD    TALES. 

all  his  pathway,  —  though  not,  perhaps,  while  he  was 
treading  it.  But,  when  posterity  should  gaze  back  into 
the  gloom  of  what  was  now  the  present,  they  would 
trace  the  brightness  of  his  footsteps,  brightening  as 
meaner  glories  faded,  and  confess,  that  a  gifted  one  had 
passed  from  his  cradle  to  his  tomb,  with  none  to  recog- 
nize him. 

"As  yet,"  cried  the  stranger,  his  cheek  glowing  and 
his  eye  flashing  with  enthusiasm,  —  "as  yet,  I  have  done 
nothing.  Were  I  to  vanish  from  the  earth  to-morrow, 
none  would  know  so  much  of  me  as  you ;  that  a  nameless 
youth  came  up,  at  nightfall,  from  the  valley  of  the  Saco, 
and  opened  his  heart  to  you  in  the  evening,  and  passed 
through  the  Notch,  by  sunrise,  and  was  seen  no  more. 
Not  a  soul  would  ask,  'Who  was  he?  Whither  did 
the  wanderer  go  ? '  But,  I  cannot  die  till  I  have  achieved 
my  destiny.  Then,  let  Death  come  !  I  shall  have  built 
my  monument ! "  * 

There  was  a  continual  flow  of  natural  emotion,  gushing 
forth  amid  abstracted  revery,  which  enabled  the  family 
to  understand  this  young  man's  sentiments,  though  so 
foreign  from  their  own.  With  quick  sensibility  of  the 
ludicrous,  he  blushed  at  the  ardor  into  which  he  had  been 
betrayed. 

"  You  laugh  at  me,"  said  he,  taking  the  eldest  daugh- 
ter's hand,  and  laughing  himself.  "You  think  my 
ambition  as  nonsensical  as  if  I  were  to  freeze  myself 
to  death  on  the  top  of  Mount  Washington,  only  that 
people  might  spy  at  me  from  the  country  round  about. 
And  truly,  that  would  be  a  noble  pedestal  for  a  man's 
statue ! " 

"  It  is  better  to  sit  here  by  this  fire,"  answered  the  girl, 
blushing,  "  and  be  comfortable  and  contented,  though  no- 
body thinks  about  us." 


THE    AMBITIOUS    GUEST.  103 

"I  suppose,"  said  her  father,  after  a  fit  of  musing, 
"  there  is  something  natural  in.  what  the  young  man  says ; 
and  if  my  mind  had  been  turned  that  way,  I  might  have 
felt  just  the  same.  It  is  strange,  wife,  how  his  talk  has 
set  my  head  running  on  things  that  are  pretty  certain 
never  to  come  to  pass." 

"Perhaps  they  may,"  observed  the  wife.  "Is  the  man 
think  ing  what  he  will  do  when  he  is  a  widower  ?  " 

"  No,  no  !  "  cried  he,  repelling  the  idea  with  reproach- 
ful kindness.  "  When  I  think  of  your  death,  Esther,  I 
think  of  mine,  too.  But  I  was  wishing  we  had  a  good 
farm,  in  Bartlett,  or  Bethlehem,  or  Littleton,  or  some 
other  township  round  the  White  Mountains ;  but  not 
where  they  could  tumble  on  our  heads.  I  should  want 
to  stand  well  with  my  neighbors,  and  be  called  Squire, 
and  sent  to  General  Court  for  a  term  or  two;  for  a 
plain,  honest  man  may  do  as  much  good  there  as  a 
lawyer.  And  when  I  should  be  grown  quite  an  old 
man,  and  you  an  old  woman,  so  as  not  to  be  long  apart, 
1  might  die  happy  enough  in  my  bed,  and  leave  you  all 
crying  around  me.  A  slate  gravestone  would  suit  me 
as  well  as  a  marble  one,  — with  just  my  name  and  age, 
and  a  verse  of  a  hymn,  and  something  to  let  people 
know  that  I  lived  an  honest  man  and  died  a  Christian.*' 

"  There  now  !  "  exclaimed  the  stranger ;  "  it  is  our 
nature  to  desire  a  monument,  be  it  slate,  or  marble,  or  a 
pillar  of  granite,  or  a  glorious  memory  in  the  universal 
heart  of  man." 

"  We  're  in  a  strange  way,  to-night,"  said  the  wife, 
with  tears  in  her  eyes.  "  They  say  it 's  a  sign  of  some- 
thing, when  folks'  minds  go  a  wandering  so.  Hark  to 
the  children !  " 

They  listened  accordingly.  The  younger  children  had 
been  put  to  bed  in  another  room,  but  with  an  open  door 


104  TWICE-TOLD    TALES. 

between,  so  that  they  could  be  heard  talking  busily  among 
themselves.  One  and  all  seemed  to  have  caught  the  in- 
fection from  the  fireside  circle,  and  were  outvying  each 
other  in  wild  wishes  and  childish  projects  of  what  they 
would  do  when  they  came  to  be  men  and  women.  At 
length,  a  little  boy,  instead  of  addressing  his  brothers  and 
sisters,  called  out  to  his  mother. 

"  I  '11  tell  you  what  I  wish,  mother,"  cried  he.  "  I 
want  you  and  father  and  grandma'm,  and  all  of  us,  and 
the  stranger  too,  to  start  right  away,  and  go  and  take  a 
drink  out  of  the  basin  of  the  Flume  !  " 

Nobody  could  help  laughing  at  the  child's  notion  of 
leaving  a  warm  bed,  and  dragging  them  from  a  cheerful 
fire,  to  visit  the  basin  of  the  Flume,  —  a  brook  which 
tumbles  over  the  precipice,  deep  within  the  Notch.  The 
boy  had  hardly,  spoken,  when  a  wagon  rattled  along  the 
road,  and  stopped  a  moment  before  the  door.  It  ap- 
peared to  contain  two  or  three  men,  who  were  cheering 
their  hearts  with  the  rough  chorus  of  a  song,  which  re- 
sounded, in  broken  notes,  between  the  cliifs,  while  the 
singers  hesitated  whether  to  continue  their  journey,  or 
put  up  here  for  the  night. 

"Father,"  said  the  girl,  "they  are  calling  you  by 
name." 

But  the  good  man  doubted  whether  they  had  really 
called  him,  and  was  unwilling  to  show  himself  too  solici- 
tous of  gain,  by  inviting  people  to  patronize  his  house. 
He  therefore  did  not  hurry  to  the  door ;  and  the  lash 
being  soon  applied,  the  travellers  plunged  into  the 
Notch,  still  singing  and  laughing,  though  their  music 
and  mirth  came  back  drearily  from  the  heart  of  the 
mountain. 

"  There,  mother !  "  cried  the  boy,  again.  "  They  'd 
have  given  us  a  ride  to  the  Flume." 


THE    AMBITIOUS    GUEST.  105 

Again  they  laughed  at  the  child's  pertinacious  fancy 
for  a  night  ramble.  But  it  happened,  that  a  light  cloud 
passed  over  the  daughter's  spirit;  she  looked  gravely 
into  the  fire,  and  drew  a  breath  that  was  almost  a  sigh. 
It  forced  its  way,  in  spite  of  a  little  struggle  to  repress  it. 
Then  starting  and  blushing,  she  looked  quickly  round  the 
circle,  as  if  they  had  caught  a  glimpse  into  her  bosom. 
The  stranger  asked  what  she  had  been  thinking  of. 

"Nothing,"  answered  she,  with  a  downcast  smile. 
"  Only  I  felt  lonesome  just  then." 

"  0,  I  have  always  had  a  gift  of  feeling  what  is  in  other 
people's  hearts  !  "  said  he,  half  seriously.  "  Shall  I  tell 
the  secrets  of  yours  ?  For  I  know  what  to  think,  when 
a  young  girl  shivers  by  a  warm  hearth,  and  complains  of 
lonesomeness  at  her  mother's  side.  Shall  I  put  these 
feelings  into  words?" 

"They  would  not  be  a  girl's  feelings  any  longer,  if 
they  could  be  put  into  words,"  replied  the  mountain 
nymph,  laughing,  but  avoiding  his  eye. 
*  All  this  was  said  apart.  Perhaps  a  germ  of  love  was 
springing  in  their  hearts,  so  pure  that  it  might  blossom 
in  Paradise,  since  it  could  not  be  matured  on  earth  ;  for 
women  worship  such  gentle  dignity  as  his ;  and  the 
proud,  contemplative,  yet  kindly  soul  is  oftenest  capti- 
vated by  simplicity  like  hers.  But,  while  they  spoke 
softly,  and  he  was  watching  the  happy  sadness,  the  light- 
some shadows,  the  shy  yearnings  of  a  maiden's  nature, 
the  wind,  through  the  Notch,  took  a  deeper  and  drearier 
sound.  It  seemed,  as  the  fanciful  stranger  said,  like  the 
choral  strain  of  the  spirits  of  the  blast,  who,  in  old  In- 
dian times,  had  their  dwelling  among  these  mountains, 
and  made  their  heights  and  recesses  a  sacred  region. 
There  was  a  wail,  along  the  road,  as  if  a  funeral  were 
passing.  To  chase  away  the  gloom,  the  family  threw 
5* 


106  TWICE-TOLD    TALES. 

pine  branches  on  their  fire,  till  the  dry  leaves  crackled 
and  the  flame  arose,  discovering  once  again  a  scene  of 
peace  and  humble  happiness.  The  light  hovered  about 
them  fondly,  and  caressed  them  all.  There  were  the  lit- 
tle faces  of  the  children,  peeping  from  their  bed  apart, 
and  here  the  father's  frame  of  strength,  the  mother's 
subdued  and  careful  mien,  the  high -browed  youth,  the 
budding  girl,  and  the  good  old  grandam,  still  knitting  in 
the  warmest  place.  The  aged  woman  looked  up  from 
her  task,  and,  with  fingers  ever  busy,  was  the  next  to 
speak. 

"  Old  folks  have  their  notions,"  said  she,  "  as  well  as 
young  ones.  You  've  been  wishing  and  planning ;  and 
letting  your  heads  run  on  one  thing  and  another,  till 
you  'vc  set  my  mind  a  wandering  too.  Now  what  should 
an  old  woman  wish  for,  when  she  can  go  but  a  step  or  two 
before  she  comes  to  her  grave  ?  Children,  it  will  hauut 
me  night  and  day,  till  I  tell  you." 

"  What  is  it,  mother  ?  "  cried  the  husband  and  wife, 
at  once.  • 

Then  the  old  woman,  with  an  air  of  mystery,  which 
drew  the  circle  closer  round  the  fire,  informed  them 
that  she  had  provided  her  graveclothes  some  years 
before,  —  a  nice  linen  shroud,  a  cap  with  a  muslin  ruff, 
and  everything  of  a  finer  sort  than  she  had  worn  since 
her  wedding-day.  But,  this  evening,  an  old  supersti- 
tion had  strangely  recurred  to  her.  It  used  to  be  said, 
in  her  younger  days,  that,  if  anything  were  amiss  with 
a  corpse,  if  only  the  ruff  were  not  smooth,  or  the  cap 
did  "not  set  right,  the  corpse,  in  the  coifin  and  beneath 
the  clods,  would  strive  to  put  up  its  cold  hands  and 
arrange  it.  The  bare  thought  made  her  nervous. 

"  Don't  talk  so,  grandmother !  "  said  the  girl,  shud- 
dering. 


THE    AMBITIOUS    GUEST.  107 

"  Now,"  continued  the  old  woman,  with  singular  ear- 
nestness, yet  smiling  strangely  at  her  own  folly,  "  I 
want  one  of  you,  my  children,  —  when  your  mother 
is  dressed,  and  in  the  coffin, —  I  want  one  of  you  to  hold 
a  looking-glass  over  my  face.  Who  knows  but  I  may 
take  a  glimpse  at  myself,  and  see  whether  all 's  right  ?  " 

"  Old  and  young,  we  dream  of  graves  and  monuments," 
murmured  the  stranger  youth.  "  I  wonder  how  mari- 
ners feel,  when  the  ship  is  sinking,  and  they,  unknown 
and  undistinguished,  are  to  be  buried  together  in  the 
ocean,  —  that  wide  and  nameless  sepulchre  ?  " 

For  a  moment,  the  old  woman's  ghastly  conception 
so  engrossed  the  minds  of  her  hearers,  that  a  sound, 
abroad  in  the  night,  rising  like  the  roar  of  a  blast,  had 
grown  broad,  deep,  and  terrible,  before  the  fated  group 
were  conscious  of  it.  The  house,  and  all  within  it, 
trembled ;  the  foundations  of  the  earth  seemed  to  be 
shaken,  as  if  this  awful  sound  were  the  peal  of  the  last 
trump.  Young  and  old  exchanged  one  wild  glance,  and 
remained  an  instant,  pale,  affrighted,  without  utterance, 
or  power  to  move.  Then  the  same  shriek  burst  simulta- 
neously from  all  their  lips. 

"  The  Slide  !     The  Slide  !  " 

The  simplest  words  must  intimate,  but  not  portray, 
the  unutterable  horror  of  the  catastrophe.  The  victims 
rushed  from  their  cottage,  and  sought  refuge  in  what 
they  deemed  a  safer  spot,  —  where,  in  contemplation  of 
sucli  an  emergency,  a  sort  of  barrier  had  been  reared. 
Alas  !  they  had  quitted  their  security,  and  fled  right  into 
the  pathway  of  destruction.  Down  came  the  whole  side 
of  the  mountain,  in  a  cataract  of  ruin.  Just  before  it 
reached  the  house,  the  stream  broke  into  two  branches, 
—  shivered  not  a  window  there,  but  overwhelmed  the 
whole  vicinity,  blocked  up  the  road,  and  annihilated 


108  TWICE-TOLD    TALES. 

everything  in  its  dreadful  course.  Long  ere  the  thunder 
of  that  great  Slide  had  ceased  to  roar  among  the  moun- 
tains, the  mortal  agony  had  been  endured,  and  the  vic- 
tims were  at  peace.  Their  bodies  were  never  found. 

The  next  morning,  the  light  smoke  was  seen  stealing 
from  the  cottage  chimney,  up  the  mountain-side.  Within, 
the  fire  was  yet  smouldering  on  the  hearth,  and  the  chairs 
in  a  circle  round  it,  as  if  the  inhabitants  had  but  gone  forth 
to  view  the  devastation  of  the  Slide,  "and  would  shortly 
return,  to  thank  Heaven  for  their  miraculous  escape. 
All  had  left  separate  tokens,  by  which  those  who  had 
known  the  family  were  made  to  shed  a  tear  for  each. 
Who  has  not  heard  their  name  ?  The  story  has  been 
told  far  and  wide,  and  will  forever  be  a  legend  of  these 
mountains.  Poets  have  sung  their  fate. 

There  were  circumstances  which  led  some  to  suppose 
that  a  stranger  had  been  received  into  the  cottage  on  this 
awful  night,  and  had  shared  the  catastrophe  of  all  its  in- 
mates. Others  denied  that  there  were  sufficient  grounds 
for  such  a  conjecture.  Woe,  for  the  high-souled  youth, 
with  his  dream  of  earthly  immortality !  His  name  and 
person  utterly  unknown ;  his  history,  his  way  of  life,  his 
plans,  a  mystery  never  to  be  solved ;  his  death  and  his 
existence  equally  a  doubt !  Whose  was  the  agony  of 
that  death  moment  ? 


THE  SISTER  YEARS. 

|A.ST  night,  between  eleven  and  twelve  o'clock, 
when  the  Old  Year  was  leaving  her  final  foot- 
prints on  the  borders  of  Time's  empire,  she 
found  herself  in  possession  of  a  few  spare  moments,  and 
sat  down  —  of  all  places  in  the  world  —  on  the  steps  of 
our  new  City  Hall.  The  wintry  moonlight  showed  that 
she  looked  weary  of  body,  and  sad  of  heart,  like  many 
another  wayfarer  of  earth.  Her  garments,  having  been 
exposed  to  much  foul  weather,  and  rough  usage,  were 
in  very  ill  condition;  and  as  the  hurry  of  her  journey 
had  never  before  allowed  her  to  take  an  instant's  rest, 
her  shoes  were  so  worn  as  to  be  scarcely  worth  the 
mending.  But,  after  trudging  only  a  little  distance  far- 
ther, this  poor  Old  Year  was  destined  to  enjoy  a  long, 
long  sleep.  I  forgot  to  mention,  that  when  she  seated 
herself  on  the  steps,  she  deposited  by  her  side  a  very 
capacious  bandbox,  in  which,  as  is  the  custom  among 
travellers  of  her  sex,  she  carried  a  great  deal  of  valuable 
property.  Besides  this  luggage,  there  was  a  folio  book 
under  her  arm,  very  much  resembling  the  annual  volume 
of  a  newspaper.  Placing  this  volume  across  her  knees, 
and  resting  her  elbows  upon  it,  with  her  forehead  in  her 
hands,  the  weary,  bedraggled,  world-worn  Old  Year 
heaved  a  heavy  sigh,  and  appeared  to  be  taking  no  very 
pleasant  retrospect  of  her  past  existence. 


110  TWICE-TOLD    TALES. 

While  she  thus  awaited  the  midnight  knell,  that  was 
to  summon  her  to  the  innumerable  sisterhood  of  departed 
Years,  there  came  a  young  maiden  treading  lightsomely 
on  tiptoe  along  the  street,  from  the  direction  of  the  Rail- 
road Depot.  She  was  evidently  a  stranger,  and  perhaps, 
had  come  to  town  by  the  evening  train  of  cars.  There 
was  a  smiling  cheerfulness  in  this  fair  maiden's  face, 
which  bespoke  her  fully  confident  of  a  kind  reception 
from  the  multitude  of  people,  with  whom  she  was  soon 
to  form  acquaintance.  Her  dress  was  rather  too  airy 
for  the  season,  and  was  bedizened  with  fluttering  ribbons 
and  other  vanities,  which  were  likely  soon  to  be  rent 
away  by  the  fierce  storms,  or  to  fade  in  the  hot  sunshine, 
amid  which  she  was  to  pursue  her  changeful  course. 
But  still  she  was  a  wonderfully  pleasant  looking  figure, 
and  had  so  much  promise  and  such  an  indescribable 
hopefulness  in  her  aspect,  that  hardly  anybody  could 
meet  her  without  anticipating  some  very  desirable  thing 
—  the  consummation  of  some  long-sought  good  —  from 
her  kind  offices.  A  few  dismal  characters  there  may  be, 
here  and  there  about  the  world,  who  have  so  often  been 
trifled  with  by  young  maidens  as  promising  as  she, 
that  they  have  now  ceased  to  pin  any  faith  upon  the 
skirts  of  the  New  Year.  But,  for  my  own  part,  I  have 
great  faith  in  her;  and  should  I  live  to  see  fifty  more 
such,  still,  from  each  of  those  successive  sisters,  I  shall 
reckon  upon  receiving  something  that  will  be  worth  living 
for. 

The  New  Year  —  for  this  young  maiden  was  no  less 
a  personage  —  carried  all  her  goods  and  chattels  in  a 
basket  of  no  great  size  or  weight,  which  hung  upon  her 
arm.  She  greeted  the  disconsolate  Old  Year  with  great 
affection,  and  sat  down  beside  her  on  the  steps  of  the 
City  Hall,  waiting  for  the  signal  to  begin  her  rambles 


THE    SISTER   YEARS.  Ill 

through  the  world.  The  two  were  own  sisters,  being 
both  granddaughters  of  Time ;  and  though  one  looked 
so  much  older  than  the  other,  it  was  rather  owing  to 
hardships  and  trouble  than  to  age,  since  there  was  but 
a  twelvemonth's  difference  between  them. 

"Well,  my  dear  sister,"  said  the  New  Year,  after  the 
first  salutations,  "you  look  almost  tired  to  death.  What 
have  you  been  about  during  your  sojourn  in  this  part  of 
Infinite  Space  ?  " 

"O,  I  have  it  all  recorded  here  in  my  Book  of 
Chronicles,"  answered  the  Old  Year,  in  a  heavy  tone. 
"  There  is  nothing  that  would  amuss  you ;  and  you  will 
soon  get  sufficient  knowledge  of  such  matters  from 
your  own  personal  experience.  It  is  but  tiresome 
reading." 

Nevertheless,  she  turned  over  the  leaves  of  the  folio, 
and  glanced  at  them  by  the  light  of  the  moon,  feeling 
an  irresistible  spell  of  interest  in  her  own  biography, 
although  its  incidents  were  remembered  without  pleas- 
ure. The  volume,  though  she  termed  it  her  Book  of 
Chronicles,  seemed  to  be  neither  more  nor  less  than  the 
Salem  Gazette  for  1838 ;  in  the  accuracy  of  which  jour- 
nal this  sagacious  Old  Year  had  so  much  confidence,  that 
she  deemed  it  needless  to  record  her  history  with  her 
own  pen. 

"  What  have  you  been  doing  in  the  political  way  ?  " 
asked  the  New  Year. 

"  Why,  my  course  here  in  the  United  States,"  said 
the  Old  Year,  —  "  though  perhaps  I  ought  to  blush  at 
the  confession,  —  my  political  course,  I  must  acknowl- 
edge, has  been  rather  vacillatory,  sometimes  inclining 
towards  the  Whigs,  —  then  causing  the  Administration 
party  to  shout  for  triumph,  —  and  now  again  uplifting 
what  seemed  the  almost  prostrate  banner  of  the  Oppo- 


112  TWICE-TOLD    TALES. 

sition ;  so  that  historians  will  hardly  know  what  to  make 
of  me,  in  this  respect.  But  the  Loco  Focos  — 

"I  do  not  like  these  party  nicknames,"  interrupted 
her  sister,  who  seemed  remarkably  touchy  about  some 
points.  "Perhaps  we  shall  part  in  better  humor,  if  we 
avoid  any  political  discussion." 

"  With  all  my  heart,"  replied  the  Old  Year,  who  had 
already  been  tormented  half  to  death  with  squabbles  of 
this  kind.  "  I  care  not  if  the  names  of  Whig  or  Tory, 
with  their  interminable  brawls  about  Banks  and  the  Sub- 
Treasury,  Abolition,  Texas,  the  Florida  War,  and  a  mil- 
lion of  other  topics,  —  which  you  will  learn  soon  enough 
for  your  own  comfort,  —  I  care  not,  I  say,  if  no  whisper 
of  these  matters  ever  reaches  my  ears  again.  Yet  they 
have  occupied  so  large  a  share  of  my  attention,  that  I 
scarcely  know  what  else  to  tell  you.  There  has  indeed 
been  a  curious  sort  of  war  on  the  Canada  border,  where 
blood  has  streamed  in  the  names  of  Liberty  and  Patriot- 
ism ;  but  it  must  remain  for  some  future,  perhaps  far 
distant  Year,  to  tell  whether  or  no  those  holy  names  have 
been  rightfully  invoked.  Nothing  so  much  depresses 
me,  in  my  view  of  mortal  affairs,  as  to  see  high  energies 
wasted,  and  human  life  and  happiness  thrown  away,  for 
ends  that  appear  oftentimes  unwise,  and  still  oftener 
remain  unaccomplished.  But  the  wisest  people  and  the 
best  keep  a  steadfast  faith  that  the  progress  of  Mankind 
is  onward  and  upward,  and  that  the  toil  and  anguish  of 
the  path  serve  to  wear  away  the  imperfections  of  the  Im- 
mortal Pilgrim,  and  will  be  felt  no  more,  when  they  have 
done  their  office." 

"  Perhaps,"  cried  the  hopeful  New  Year,  —  "  perhaps 
I  shall  see  that  happy  day  !  " 

"  I  doubt  whether  it  be  so  close  at  hand,"  answered 
the  Old  Year,  gravely  smiling.  "  You  will  soon  grow 


THE    SISTER    YEARS.  113 

weary  of  looking  for  that  blessed  consummation,  and 
wilt  turn  for  amusement  (as  lias  frequently  been  my 
own  practice)  to  the  affairs  of  some  sober  little  city, 
like  this  of  Salem.  Here  we  sit  on  the  steps  of  the 
new  City  Hall,  which  has  been  completed  under  my 
administration  ;  and  it  would  make  you  laugh  to  see 
how  the  game  of  politics,  of  which  the  Capitol  at 
Washington  is  the  great  chess-board,  is  here  played 
in  miniature.  Burning  Ambition  finds  its  fuel  here ; 
here  Patriotism  speaks  boldly  in  the  people's  behalf, 
and  virtuous  Economy  demands  retrenchment  in  the 
emoluments  of  a  lamplighter ;  here  the  Aldermen  range 
their  senatorial  dignity  around  the  Mayor's  chair  of  state, 
and  the  Common  Council  feel  that  they  have  liberty  in 
charge.  In  short,  human  weakness  and  strength,  pas- 
sion and  policy,  Man's  tendencies,  his  aims  and  modes 
of  pursuing  them,  his  individual  character,  and  his 
character  in  the  mass,  may  be  studied  almost  as  well 
here  as  on  the  theatre  of  nations  ;  and  with  this  great 
advantage,  that,  be  the  lesson  ever  so  disastrous,  its 
Liliputian  scope  still  makes  the  beholder  smile." 

"Have  you  done  much  for  the  improvement  of  the 
City  ?  "  asked  the  New  Year.  "  Judging  from  what 
little  I  have  seen,  it  appears  to  be  ancient  and  time- 
worn." 

"  I  have  opened  the  Railroad,"  said  the  elder  Year, 
"  and  half  a  dozen  times  a  day,  you  will  hear  the  bell 
(which  once  summoned  the  Monks  of  a  Spanish  Con- 
vent to  their  devotions)  announcing  the  arrival  or  de- 
parture of  the  cars.  Old  Salem  now  wears  a  much 
livelier  expression  thaii  when  I  first  beheld  her.  Stran- 
gers rumble  down  from  Boston  by  hundreds  at  a  time. 
New  faces  throng  in  Essex  Street.  Railroad-hacks  and 
omnibuses  rattle  over  the  pavements.  There  is  a  per- 


114  TWICE-TOLD    TALES. 

ceptible  increase  of  oyster-shops,  and  other  establish- 
ments for  the  accommodation  of  a  transitory  diurnal 
multitude.  But  a  more  important  change  awaits  the 
venerable  town.  Au  immense  accumulation  of  musty 
prejudices  will  be  carried  off  by  the  free  circulation  of 
society.  A  peculiarity  of  character,  of  which  the  in-  . 
habitants  themselves  are  hardly  sensible,  will  be  rubbed 
down  and  worn  away  by  the  attrition  of  foreign  sub- 
stances. Much  of  the  result  will  be  good;  there  will 
likewise  be  a  few  things  not  so  good.  Whether  for 
better  or  worse,  there  will  be  a  probable  diminution  of 
the  moral  influence  of  wealth,  and  the  sway  of  an  aris- 
tocratic class,  which,  from  an  era  far  beyond  my  mem- 
ory, has  held  firmer  dominion  here  than  in  any  other 
New  England  town." 

The  Old  Year  having  talked  away  nearly  all  of  her 
little  remaining  breath,  now  closed  her  Book  of  Chroni- 
cles, and  was  about  to  take  her  departure.  But  her 
sister  detained  her  awhile  longer,  by  inquiring  the  con- 
tents of  the  huge  bandbox,  which  she  was  so  painfully 
lugging  along  with  her. 

"These  are  merely  a  few  trifles,"  replied  the  Old 
Year,  "which  I  have  picked  up  in  my  rambles,  and 
am  going  to  deposit,  in  the  receptacle  of  things  past 
and  forgotten.  We  sisterhood  of  Years  never  carry  any- 
thing really  valuable  out  of  the  world  with  us.  Here 
are  patterns  of  most  of  the  fashions  which  I  brought 
into  vogue,  and  which  have  already  lived  out  their 
allotted  term.  You  will  supply  their  place,  with  others 
equally  ephemeral.  Here,  put  up  in  little  China  pots, 
like  rouge,  is  a  considerable  lot  of  beautiful  women's 
bloom,  which  the  disconsolate  fair  ones  owe  me  a  bitter 
grudge  for  stealing.  I  have  likewise  a  quantity  of  men's 
dark  hair,  instead  of  which,  I  have  left  gray  locks,  or 


THE    SISTER    YEARS.  115 

none  at  all.  The  tears  of  widows  and  other  afflicted 
mortals,  who  have  received  comfort  during  the  last 
twelve  months,  are  preserved  in  some  dozens  of  essence- 
bottles,  well  corked  and  sealed.  I  have  several  bundles  of 
love-letters,  eloquently  breathing  an  eternity  of  burning 
passion,  which  grew  cold  and  perished,  almost  before 
the  ink  was  dry.  Moreover,  here  is  an  assortment  of 
many  thousand  broken  promises,  and  other  broken  ware, 
all  very  light  and  packed  into  little  space.  The  heaviest 
articles  in  my  possession  are  a  large  parcel  of  disap- 
pointed hopes,  which,  a  little  while  ago,  were  buoyant 
enough  to  have  inflated  Mr.  Lauriat's  balloon." 

"  I  have  a  fine  lot  of  hopes  here  in  my  basket," 
remarked  the  New  Year.  "  They  are  a  sweet-smelling 
flower, — a  species  of  rose." 

"  They  soon  lose  their  perfume,"  replied  the  sombre 
Old  Year.  "  What  else  have  you  brought  to  insure  a 
welcome  from  the  discontented  race  of  mortals?" 

"Why,  to  say  the  truth,  little  or  nothing  else,"  said 
her  sister,  with  a  smile,  — "  save  a  few  new  Annuals 
and  Almanacs,  and  some  New  Year's  gifts  for  the 
children.  But  I  heartily  wish  well  to  poor  mortals, 
and  mean  to  do  all  I  can  for  their  improvement  and 
happiness." 

"  It  is  a  good  resolution,"  rejoined  the  Old  Year ; 
"  and,  by  the  way,  I  have  a  plentiful  assortment  of  good 
resolutions,  which  have  now  grown  so  stale  and  musty, 
that  I  am  ashamed  to  carry  them  any  farther.  Only  for 
fear  that  the  City  authorities  would  send  Constable 
Mansfield,  with  a  warrant  after  me,  I  should  toss  them 
into  the  street  at  once.  Many  other  matters  go  to  make 
up  the  contents  of  my  bandbox  ;  but  the  whole  lot  would 
not  fetch  a  single  bid,  even  at  an  auction  of  worn-out 
furniture  ;  and  as  they  are  worth  nothing  either  to  you 


116  TWICE-TOLD    TALES. 

or  anybody  else,  I  need  not  trouble  you  with  a  longer 
catalogue." 

"  And  must  I  also  pick  up  such  worthless  luggage  in 
my  travels  ?  "  asked  the  New  Year. 

"  Most  certainly ;  and  well,  if  you  have  no  heavier 
load  to  bear,"  replied  the  other.  "  And  now,  my  dear 
sister,  I  must  bid  you  farewell,  earnestly  advising  and 
exhorting  you  to  expect  no  gratitude  nor  good-will  from 
this  peevish,  unreasonable,  inconsiderate,  ill-intending,  and 
worse-behaving  world.  However  warmly  its  inhabitants 
may  seem  to  welcome  you,  yet,  do  what  you  may,  and 
lavish  on  them  what  means  of  happiness  you  please,  they 
will  still  be  complaining,  still  craving  what  it  is  not  in 
your  power  to  give,  still  looking  forward  to  some  other 
Year  for  the  accomplishment  of  projects  which  ought 
never  to  have  been  formed,  and  which,  if  successful, 
would  only  provide  new  occasions  of  discontent.  If 
these  ridiculous  people  ever  see  anything  tolerable  in 
you,  it  will  be  after  you  are  gone  forever." 

" But  I,"  cried  the  fresh-hearted  New  Year,  —  "I  shall 
try  to  leave  men  wiser  than  I  find  them.  I  will  offer  them 
freely  whatever  good  gifts  Providence  permits  me  to  dis- 
tribute, and  will  tell  them  to  be  thankful  for  what  they 
have,  and  humbly  hopeful  for  more ;  and  surely,  if  they 
are  not  absolute  fools,  they  will  condescend  to  be  happy, 
and  will  allow  me  to  be  a  happy  Year.  For  my  happiness 
must  depend  on  them." 

"  Alas  for  you,  then,  my  poor  sister ! "  said  the  Old 
Year,  sighing,  as  she  uplifted  her  burden.  "  We  grand- 
children of  Time  are  born  to  trouble.  Happiness,  they 
say,  dwells  in  the  mansions  of  Eternity ;  but  we  can  only 
lead  mortals  thither,  step  by  step,  with  reluctant  mur- 
murings,  and  ourselves  must  perish  on  the  threshold. 
But  hark!  my  task  is  done." 


THE    SISTER   YEARS.  117 

The  clock  in  the  tall  steeple  of  Dr.  Emerson's  church 
struck  twelve ;  there  Avas  a  response  from  Dr.  Flint's,  in 
the  opposite  quarter  of  the  city ;  and  while  the  strokes 
were  yet  dropping  into  the  air,  the  Old  Year  either  flitted 
or  faded  away ;  and  not  the  wisdom  and  might  of  Angels, 
to  say  nothing  of  the  remorseful  yearnings  of  the  millions 
who  had  used  her  ill,  could  have  prevailed  with  that 
departed  Year  to  return  one  step.  But  she,  in  the  com- 
pany of  Time  and  all  her  kindred,  must  hereafter  hold  a 
reckoning  with  Mankind.  So  shall  it  be,  likewise,  with 
the  maidenly  New  Year,  who,  as  the  clock  ceased  to 
strike,  arose  from  the  steps  of  the  City  Hall,  and  set  out 
rather  timorously  on  her  earthly  course. 

"  A  happy  New  Year !  "  cried  a  watchman,  eying  her 
figure  very  questionably,  but  without  the  least  suspicion 
that  he  was  addressing  the  New  Year  in  person. 

"  Thank  you  kindly ! "  said  the  New  Year ;  and  she 
gave  the  watchman  one  of  the  roses  of  hope  from  her 
basket.  "  May  this  flower  keep  a  sweet  smell,  long  after 
I  have  bidden  you  good  by." 

Then  she  stepped  on  more  briskly  through  the  silent 
streets ;  and  such  as  were  awake  at  the  moment,  heard 
her  footfalf,  and  said,  "  The  New  Year  is  come !  " 
Wherever  there  was  a  knot  of  midnight  roisterers,  they 
quaffed  her  health.  She  sighed,  however,  to  perceive 
that  the  air  was  tainted  —  as  the  atmosphere  of  this 
world  must  continually  be  —  with,  the  dying  breaths  of 
mortals  who  had  lingered  just  long  enough  for  her  to 
bury  them.  But  there  were  millions  left  alive,  to  rejoice 
at  her  coming ;  and  so  she  pursued  her  way  with  con- 
fidence, strewing  emblematic  flowers  on  the  doorstep  of 
almost  every  dwelling,  which  some  persons  will  gather 
up  and  wear  in  their  bosoms,  and  others  will  trample 
under  foot.  The  Carrier  Boy  can  only  say  further,  that, 


118 


TWICE-TOLD    TALES. 


early  this  morning,  she  filled  his  basket  with  New  Year's 
Addresses,  assuring  him  that  the  whole  City,  with  our 
new  Mayor,  and  the  Aldermen  and  Common  Council  at 
its  head,  would  make  a  general  rush  to  secure  copies. 
Kind  Patrons,  will  not  you  redeem  the  pledge  of  the 
NEW  YEAR? 


SNOW-FLAKES. 


|HERE  is  snow  in  yonder  cold  gray  sky  of  the 
morning  !  —  and,  through  the  partially  frosted 
_  window-panes,  I  love  to  watch  the  gradual 
beginning  of  the  storm.  A  few  feathery  flakes  are  scat- 
tered widely  through  the  air,  and  hover  downward  with 
uncertain  flight,  now  almost  alighting  on  the  earth,  now 
whirled  again  aloft  into  remote  regions  of  the  atmosphere. 
These  are  not  the  big  flakes,  heavy  with  moisture,  which 
melt  as  they  touch  the  ground,  and  are  portentous  of  a 
jsoaking  rain.  It  is  to  be,  in  good  earnest,  a  wintry 
storm.  The  two  or  three  people,  visible  on  the  side- 
walks, have  an  aspect  of  endurance,  a  blue-nosed,  frosty 
fortitude,  which  is  evidently  assumed  in  anticipation  of  a 
comfortless  and  blustering  day.  By  nightfall,  or  at  least 
before  the  sun  sheds  another  glimmering  smile  upon  us, 
the  street  and  our  little  garden  will  be  heaped  with 
mountain  snow-drifts.  The  soil,  already  frozen  for  weeks 
past,  is  prepared  to  sustain  whatever  burden  may  be  laid 
upon  it  ;  and,  to  a  northern  eye,  the  landscape  will  lose 
its  melancholy  bleakness  and  acquire  a  beauty  of  its  own, 
when  Mother  Earth,  like  her  children,  shall  have  put  on 
the  fleecy  garb  of  her  winter's  wear.  The  cloud-spirits 
are  slowly  weaving  her  white  mantle.  As  yet,  indeed, 
there  is  barely  a  rime  like  hoarfrost  over  the  brown 


120  TWICE-TOLD    TALES. 

surface  of  the  street ;  the  withered  green  of  the  grass-plat 
is  still  discernible ;  and  the  slated  roofs  of  the  houses  do 
but  begin  to  look  gray,  instead  of  black.  All  the  snow 
that  has  yet  fallen  within  the  circumference  of  my  view, 
were  it  heaped  up  together,  would  hardly  equal  the  hil- 
lock of  a  grave.  Thus  gradually,  by  silent  and  stealthy 
influences,  are  great  changes  wrought.  These  little  snow- 
particles,  which  the  storm -spirit  flings  by  handfuls  through 
the  air,  will  bury  the  great  earth  under  their  accumulated 
mass,  nor  permit  her  to  behold  her  sister  sky  again  for 
dreary  months.  We,  likewise,  shall  lose  sight  of  our 
mother's  familiar  visage,  and  must  content  ourselves  with 
looking  heavenward  the  ofteuer. 

Now,  leaving  the  storm  to  do  his  appointed  office,  let 
us  sit  down,  pen  in  hand,  by  our  fireside.  Gloomy  as  it 
may  seem,  there  is  an  influence  productive  of  cheerful- 
ness, and  favorable  to  imaginative  thought,  in  the  atmos- 
phere of  a  snowy  day.  The  native  of  a  southern  clime 
may  woo  the  muse  beneath  the  heavy  shade  of  summer 
foliage,  reclining  on  banks  of  turf,  while  the  sound  o£ 
singing  birds  and  warbling  rivulets  chimes  in  with  the 
music  of  his  soul.  In  our  brief  summer,  I  do  not  think, 
but  only  exist  in  -the  vague  enjoyment  of  a  dream.  My 
hour  of  inspiration  —  if  that  hour  ever  comes  —  is  when 
the  green  log  hisses  upon  the  hearth,  and  the  bright 
flame,  brighter  for  the  gloom  of  the  chamber,  rustles 
high  up  the  chimney,  and  the  coals  drop  tinkling  down 
among  the  growing  heaps  of  ashes.  When  the  casement 
rattles  in  the  gust,  and  the  snow-flakes  or  the  sleety  rain- 
drops pelt  hard  against  the  window-panes,  then  I  spread 
out  my  sheet  of  paper,  with  the  certainty  that  thoughts 
and  fancies  will  gleam  forth  upon  it,  like  stars  at  twilight, 
or  like  violets  in  May,  —  perhaps  to  fade  as  soon.  How- 
ever transitory  their  glow,  they  at  least  shine  amid  the 


SNOW-FLAKES.  121 

darksome  shadow  which  the  clouds  of  the  outward  sky 
fling  through  the  room.  Blessed,  therefore,  and  rever- 
ently welcomed  by  me,  her  true-born  sou,'  be  New 
England's  winter,  which  makes  ns,  one  and  all,  the 
nurslings  of  the  storm,  and  sings  a  familiar  lullaby  even 
in  the  wildest  shriek  of  the  December  blast.  Now  look 
we  forth  again,  and  see  how  much  of  his  task  the  storm- 
spirit  has  done. 

Slow  and  sure  !  He  has  the  day,  perchance  the  week, 
before  him,  and  may  take  his  own  time  to  accomplish 
Nature's  burial  in  snow.  A  smooth  mantle  is  scarcely 
yet  thrown  over  the  withered  grass-plat,  and  the  dry 
stalks  of  annuals  still  thrust  themselves  through  the 
white  surface  in  all  parts  of  the  garden.  The  leafless 
rose-bushes  stand  shivering  in  a  shallow  snow-drift,  look- 
ing, poor  things !  as  disconsolate  as  if  they  possessed  a 
human  consciousness  of  the  dreary  scene.  This  is  a  sad 
time  for  the  shrubs  that  do  not  perish  with  the  summer ; 
they  neither  live  nor  die  ;  what  they  retain  of  life  seems 
but  the  chilling  sense  of  death.  Very  sad  are  the  flower 
shrubs  in  midwinter  !  The  roofs  of  the  houses  are  now 
all  white,  save  where  the  eddying  wind  has  kept  them 
bare  at  the  bleak  corners.  To  discern  the  real  intensity 
of  the  storm,  we  must  fix  upon  some  distant  object,  —  as 
yonder  spire,  — and  observe  how  the  riotous  gust  fights 
with  the  descending  snow  throughout  the  intervening 
space.  Sometimes  the  entire  prospect  is  obscured ; 
then,  again,  we  have  a  distinct,  but  transient  glimpse  of 
the  tall  steeple,  like  a  giant's  ghost ;  and  now  the  dense 
wreaths  sweep  between,  as  if  demons  were  flinging  snow- 
drifts at  each  other,  in  mid-air.  Look  next  into  the  street, 
where  we  have  seen  an  amusing  parallel  to  the  combat  of 
those  fancied  demons  in  the  upper  regions.  It  is  a  snow- 
battle  of  school-boys.  What  a  pretty  satire  on  war  and 

VOL.  II.  6 


122  TWICE-TOLD    TALES. 

military  glory  might  be  written,  in  the  form  of  a  child's 
story,  by  describing  the  snowball-fights  of  two  rival 
schools,  the  alternate  defeats  and  victories  of  each,  and  the 
final  triumph  of  one  party,  or  perhaps  of  neither !  What 
pitched  battles,  worthy  to  be  chanted  in  Homeric  strains  ! 
What  storming  of  fortresses,  bnilt  all  of  massive  snow- 
blocks  !  What  feats  of  individual  prowess,  and  embod- 
ied onsets  of  martial  enthusiasm  !  And  when  some  well- 
contested  and  decisive  victory  had  put  a  period  to  the 
war,  both  armies  should  unite  to  build  a  lofty  monument 
of  snow  upon  the  battle-field,  and  crown  it  with  the  vic- 
tor's statue,  hewn  of  the  same  frozen  marble.  In  a  few 
days  or  weeks  thereafter,  the  passer-by  would  observe  a 
shapeless  mound  upon  the  level  common ;  and,  unmind- 
ful of  the  famous  victory,  would  ask,  "  How  came  it 
there?  Who  reared  it?"  And  what  means  it?"  The 
shattered  pedestal  of  many  a  battle  monument  has  pro- 
voked these  questions,  when  none  could  answer. 

Turn  we  again  to  the  fireside,  and  sit  musing  there, 
lending  our  ears  to  the  wind,  till  perhaps  it  shall  seem 
like  an  articulate  voice,  and  dictate  wild  and  airy  matter 
for  the  pen.  Would  it  might  inspire  me  to  sketch  out 
the  personification  of  a  New  England  winter  !  And  that 
idea,  if  I  can  seize  the  snow-wreathed  figures  that  flit 
before  my  fancy,  shall  be  the  theme  of  the  next  page. 

How  does  Winter  herald  his  approach  ?  By  the  shriek- 
ing blast  of  latter  autumn,  which  is  Nature's  cry  of  lamen- 
tation, as  the  destroyer  rushes  among  the  shivering  groves 
where  she  has  lingered,  and  scatters  the  sear  leaves  upon 
the  tempest.  When  that  cry  is  heard,  the  people  wrap 
themselves  in  cloaks,  and  shake  their  heads  disconsolately, 
saying,  "  Winter  is  at  hand !  "  Then  the  axe  of  the 
woodcutter  echoes  sharp  and  diligently  in  the  forest; 
then  the  coal-merchants  rejoice,  because  each  shriek  of 


SNOW-FLAKES.  123 

Nature  in  her  agony  adds  something  to  the  price  of  coal 
per  ton;  then  the  peat-smoke  spreads  its  aromatic  fra- 
grance through  the  atmosphere.  A  few  days  more  ;  and 
at  eventide,  the  children  look  out  of  the  window,  and 
dimly  perceive  the  flaunting  of  a  snowy  mantle  in  the  air. 
It  Is  stern  Winter's  vesture.  They  crowd  around  the 
hearth,  and  cling  to  their  mother's  gown,  or  press  be- 
tween their  father's  knees,  affrighted  by  the  hollow  roar- 
ing voice,  that  bellows  adown  the  wide  flue  of  the  chimney. 
It  is  the  voice  of  Winter ;  and  when  parents  and  children 
hear  it,  they  shudder  and  exclaim,  "  Winter  is  come ! 
Cold  Winter  has  begun  his  reign  already ! "  Now, 
throughout  New  England,  each  hearth  becomes  an  altar, 
sending  up  the  smoke  of  a  continued  sacrifice  to  the  im- 
mitigable deity  who  tyrannizes  over  forest,  country  side, 
and  town.  Wrapped  in  his  white  mantle,  his  staff  a  huge 
icicle,  his  beard  and  hair  a  wind-tossed  snow-drift,  he 
travels  over  the  land,  in  the  midst  of  the  northern  blast ; 
and  woe  to  the  homeless  wanderer  whom  he  finds  upon 
his  path  !  There  he  lies  stark  and  stiff,  a  human  shape 
of  ice,  on  the  spot  where  Winter  overtook  him.  On 
strides  the  tyrant  over  the  rushing  rivers  and  broad  lakes, 
which  turn  to  rock  beneath  his  footsteps.  His  dreary  em- 
pire is  established ;  all  around  stretches  the  desolation  of 
the  Pole.  Yet  not  ungrateful  be  his  New  England  chil- 
dren, —  for  Winter  is  our  sire,  though  a  stern  and  rough 
one,  —  not  ungrateful  even  for  the  severities,  which  have 
nourished  our  unyielding  strength  of  character.  And  let 
us  thank  him,  too,  for  the  sleigh-rides,  cheered  by  the 
music  of  merry  bells ;  for  the  crackling  and  rustling 
hearth,  when  the  ruddy  firelight  gleams  on  hardy  Man- 
hood and  the  blooming  cheek  of  Woman;  for  all  the 
home  enjoyments,  and  the  kindred  virtues,  which  flourish 
in  a  frozen  soil.  Not  that  we  grieve,  when,  after  some 


124  TWICE-TOLD    TALES. 

seven  months  of  storm  and  bitter  frost,  Spring,  in  the 
guise  of  a  flower-crowned  virgin,  is  seen  driving  away 
the  hoary  despot,  pelting  him  with  violets  by  the  hand- 
ful, and  strewing  green  grass  on  the  path  behind  him. 
Often,  ere  he  will  give  up  his  empire,  old  Winter  rushes 
fiercely  back,  and  hurls  a  snow-drift  at  the  shrinking  form 
of  Spriug ;  yet,  step  by  step,  he  is  compelled  to  retreat 
northward,  and  spends  the  summer  months  within  the 
Arctic  circle. 

Such  fantasies,  intermixed  among  graver  toils  of  mind, 
have  made  the  winter's  day  pass  pleasantly.  Meanwhile, 
the  storm  has  raged  without  abatement,  and  now,  as  the 
brief  afternoon  declines,  is  tossing  denser  volumes  to  and 
fro  about  the  atmosphere.  On  the  window-sill,  there  is  a 
layer  of  snow,  reaching  half-way  up  the  lowest  pane  of 
glass.  The  garden  is  one  unbroken  bed.  Along  the 
street  are  two  or  three  spots  of  uncovered  earth,  where 
the  gust  has  whirled  away  the  snow,  heaping  it  else- 
where to  the  fence-tops,  or  piling  huge  banks  against  the 
doors  of  houses.  A  solitary  passenger  is  seen,  now  strid- 
ing mid-leg  deep  across  a  drift,  now  scudding  over  the  bare 
ground,  while  his  cloak  is  swollen  with  the  wind.  And 
now  the  jingling  of  bells,  a  sluggish  sound,  responsive 
to  the  horse's  toilsome  progress  through  the  unbroken 
drifts,  announces  the  passage  of  a  sleigh,  with  a  boy 
clinging  behind,  and  ducking  his  head  to  escape  detec- 
tion by  the  driver.  Next  comes  a  sledge,  laden  with 
•wood  for  some  unthrifty  housekeeper,  whom  winter  has 
surprised  at  a  cold  hearth.  But  what  dismal  equipage 
now  struggles  along  the  uneven  street  ?  A  sable  hearse, 
bestrewn  with  snow,  is  bearing  a  dead  man  through  the 
storm  to  his  frozen  bed.  O,  how  dreary  is  a  burial  in 
winter,  when  the  bosom  of  Mother  Earth  has  no  warmth 
for  her  poor  child  ! 


SNOW-FLAKES. 


Evening  —  the  early  eve  of  December  —  begins  to 
spread  its  deepening  veil  over  the  comfortless  scene  ;  the 
firelight  gradually  brightens,  and  throws  my,  flickering 
shadow  upon  the  walls  and  ceiling  of  the  chamber  ;  but 
still  the  storm  rages  and  rattles  against  the  windows. 
Alas!  I  shiver,  and  think  it  time  to  be  disconsolate. 
But,  taking  a  farewell  glance  at  dead  Nature  in  her 
shroud,  I  perceive  a  flock  of  snow-birds,  skimming  light- 
somely  through  the  tempest,  and  flitting  from  drift  to 
drift,  as  sportively  as  swallows  in  the  delightful  prime  of 
summer.  Whence  come  they  ?  Where  do  they  build 
their  nests,  and  seek  their  food  ?  Why,  having  airy 
wings,  do  they  not  follow  summer  around  the  earth,  in- 
stead of  making  themselves  the  playmates  of  the  storm, 
and  fluttering  on  the  dreary  verge  of  the  winter's  eve  ? 
I  know  not  whence  they  come,  nor  why  ;  yet  my  spirit 
has  been  cheered  by  that  wandering  flock  of  snow-birds. 


THE  SEVEN  VAGABONDS. 


RAMBLING  on  foot  in  the  spring  of  my  life  and 
the  summer  of  the  year,  I  came  one  afternoon 

to  a  point  which  gave  me  the  choice  of  three 

directions.  Straight  before  me,  the  main  road  extended 
its  dusty  length  to  Boston ;  on  the  left  a  branch  went 
towards  the  sea,  and  would  have  lengthened  my  journey 
a  trifle  of  twenty  or  thirty  miles ;  while  by  the  right- 
hand  path,  I  might  have  gone  over  hills  and  lakes  to 
Canada,  visiting  in  my  way  the  celebrated  town  of  Stam- 
ford. On  a  level  spot  of  grass,  at  the  foot  of  the  guide- 
post,  appeared  an  object,  which,  though  locomotive  on 
a  different  principle,  reminded  me  of  Gulliver's  portable 
mansion  among  the  Brobdignags.  It  was  a  huge  covered 
wagon,  or,  more  properly,  a  small  house  on  wheels,  with 
a  door  on  one  side  and  a  window  shaded  by  green  blinds 
on  the  other.  Two  horses,  munching  provender  out  of 
the  baskets  which  muzzled  them,  were  fastened  near  the 
vehicle  :  a  delectable  sound  of  music  proceeded  from  the 
interior ;  and  I  immediately  conjectured  that  this  was 
some  itinerant  show,  halting  at  the  confluence  of  the 
roads  to  intercept  such  idle  travellers  as  myself.  A 
shower  had  long  been  climbing  up  the  western  sky,  and 
now  hung  so  blackly  over  my  onward  path  that  it  was  a 
point  of  wisdom  to  seek  shelter  here. 


THE    SEVEN    VAGABONDS.  127 

"  Halloo !  Who  stands  guard  here  ?  Is  the  door- 
keeper asleep  ?  "  cried  I,  approaching  a  ladder  of  two 
or  three  steps  Avhicli  was  let  down  from  the  wagon. 

The  music  ceased  at  my  summons,  and  there  appeared 
at  the  door,  not  the  sort  of  figure  that  I  had  mentally 
assigned  to  the  wandering  showman,  but  a  most  respec- 
table old  personage,  whom  I  was  sorry  to  have  addressed 
in  so  free  a  style.  He  wore  a  snuff-colored  coat  and 
small-clothes,  with  white-top  boots,  and  exhibited  the 
mild  dignity  of  aspect  and  manner  which  may  often  be 
noticed  in  aged  schoolmasters,  and  sometimes  in  deacons, 
selectmen,  or  other  potentates  of  that  kind.  A  small 
piece  of  silver  was  my  passport  within  his  premises, 
where  I  found  only  one  other  person,  hereafter  to  be 
described. 

"  This  is  a  dull  day  for  business,"  said  the  old  gentle- 
man, as  he  ushered  me  in ;  "  but  I  merely  tarry  here  to 
refresh  the  cattle,  being  bound  for  the  camp-meeting  at 
Stamford." 

Perhaps  the  movable,  scene  of  this  narrative  is  still 
peregrinating  New  England,  and  may  enable  the  reader 
to  test  the  accuracy  of  my  description.  The  spectacle 
—  for  I  will  not  use  the  unworthy  term  of  puppet-show 
• —  consisted  of  a  multitude  of  little  people  assembled  on 
a  miniature  stage.  Among  them  were  artisans  of  every 
kind,  in  the  attitudes  of  their  toil,  and  a  group  of  fair 
ladies  and  gay  gentlemen  standing  ready  for  the  dance; 
a  company  of  foot-soldiers  formed  a  line  across  the  stage, 
looking  stern,  grim,  and  terrible  enough,  to  make  it  a 
pleasant  consideration  that  they  were  but  three  inches 
high  ;  and  conspicuous  above  the  whole  was  seen  a 
Merry-Andrew,  in  the  pointed  cap  and  motley  coat  of 
his  profession.  All  the  inhabitants  of  this  mimic  world 
were  motionless,  like  the  figures  in  a  picture,  or  like 


128  TWICE-TOLD    TALES. 

that  people  who  one  moment  were  alive  in  the  midst  of 
their  business  and  delights,  and  the  next  were  trans- 
formed to  statues,  preserving  an  eternal  semblance  of 
labor  that  was  ended,  and  pleasure  that  could  be  felt  no 
more.  Anon,  however,  the  old  gentleman  turned  the 
handle  of  a  barrel-organ,  the  first  note  of  which  produced 
a  most  enlivening  effect  upon  the  figures,  and  awoke 
them  all  to  their  proper  occupations  and  amusements. 
By  the  self-same  impulse  the  tailor  plied  his  needle,  the 
blacksmith's  hammer  descended  upon  the  anvil,  and  the 
dancers  whirled  away  on  feathery  tiptoes  ;  the  company 
of  soldiers  broke  into  platoons,  retreated  from  the  si  age, 
and  were  succeeded  by  a  troop  of  horse,  who  came  pran- 
cing onward  with  such  a  sound  of  trumpets  and  trampling 
of  hoofs,  as  might  have  startled  Don  Quixote  himself; 
while  an  old  toper,  of  inveterate  ill  habits,  uplifted  his 
black  bottle  and  took  off  a  hearty  swig.  Meantime  the 
Merry-Andrew  began  to  caper  and  turn  somersets,  shak- 
ing his  sides,  nodding  his  head,  and  winking  his  eyes  in 
as  life-like  a  manner  as  if  he  were  ridiculing  the  nonsense 
of  all  human  affairs,  and  making  fun  of  the  whole  multi- 
tude beneath  him.  At  length  the  old  magician  (for  I 
compared  the  showman  to  Prospero,  entertaining  his 
guests  with  a  mask  of  shadows)  paused  that  I  might 
give  utterance  to  my  wonder. 

"  What  an  admirable  piece  of  work  is  this ! "  ex- 
claimed I,  lifting  up  my  hands  in  astonishment. 

Indeed,  I  liked  the  spectacle,  and  was  tickled  with 
the  old  man's  gravity  as  he  presided  at  it,  for  I  had 
none  of  that  foolish  wisdom  which  reproves  every  occu- 
pation that  is  not  useful  in  this  world  of  vanities.  If 
there  be  a  faculty  which  I  possess  more  perfectly  than 
most  men,  it  is  that  of  throwing  myself  mentally  into 
situations  foreign  to  my  own,  and  detecting,  with  a 


THE    SEVEN   VAGABONDS.  129 

cheerful  eye,  the  desirable  circumstances  of  each.  I 
could  have  envied  the  life  of  this  gray-headed  showman, 
spent  as  it  had  been  in  a  course  of  safe  and  pleasurable 
adventure,  in  driving  his  huge  vehicle  sometimes  through 
the  sands  of  Cape  Cod,  and  sometimes  over  the  rough 
forest  roads  of  the  north  and  east,  and  halting  now  on 
the  green  before  a  village  meeting-house,  and  now  in  a 
paved  square  of  the  metropolis.  How  often  must  his 
heart  have  been  gladdened  by  the  delight  of  children,- 
as  they  viewed  these  animated  figures  !  or  his  pride 
indulged,  by  haranguing  learnedly  to  grown  men  on 
the  mechanical  powers  which  produced  such  wonderful 
effects  !  or  his  gallantry  brought  into  play  (for  this  is 
an  attribute  which  such  grave  men  do  not  lack)  by  the 
visits  of  pretty  maidens!  And  then  with  how  fresh -a 
feeling  must  he  return,  at  intervals,  to  his  own  peculiar 
home ! 

"I  would  I  were  assured  of  as  happy  a  life  as  his," 
thought  I. 

Though  the  showman's  wagon  might  have  accommo- 
dated fifteen  or  twenty  spectators,  it  now  contained  only 
himself  and  me,  and  a  third  person  at  whom  I  threw  a 
glance  on  entering.  He  was  a  neat  and  trim  young  man 
of  two  or  three  and  twenty ;  his  drab  hat,  and  green 
frock-coat  with  velvet  collar,  were  smart,  though  no 
longer  new ;  while  a  pair  of  green  spectacles,  that 
seemed  needless  to  his  brisk  little  eyes,  gave  him  some- 
thing of  a  scholar-like  and  literary  air.  After  allowing 
me  a  sufficient  time  to  inspect  the  puppets,  he  advanced 
with  a  bow,  and  drew  my  attention  to  some  books  in  a 
corner  of  the  wagon.  These  he  forthwith  began  to  ex- 
tol, with  an  amazing  volubility  of  well-sounding  words, 
and  an  ingenuity  of  praise  that  won  him  my  heart,  as 
being  myself  one  of  the  most  merciful  of  critics.  Indeed, 
6*  i 


130  TWICE-TOLD    TALES. 

liis  stock  required  some  considerable  powers  of  commen- 
dation in  the  salesman ;  there  were  several  ancient  friends 
of  mine,  the  novels  of  those  happy  days  when  my  affec- 
tions wavered  between  the  Scottish  Chiefs  and  Thomas 
Thumb ;  besides  a  few  of  later  date,  whose  merits  had 
not  been  acknowledged  by  the  public.  I  was  glad  to 
find  that  dear  little  venerable  volume,  the  New  England 
Primer,  looking  as  antique  as  ever,  though  in  its  thou- 
sandth new  edition ;  a  bundle  of  superannuated  gilt  pic- 
ture-books made  such  a  child  of  me,  that,  partly  for  the 
glittering  covers,  and  partly  for  the  fairy-tales  within,  I 
bought  the  whole  ;  and  an  assortment  of  ballads  and 
popular  theatrical  songs  drew  largely  on  my  purse.  To 
balance  these  expenditures,  I  meddled  neither  with  ser- 
mons, nor  science,  nor  morality,  though  volumes  of  each 
were  there ;  nor  with  a  Life  of  Franklin  in  the  coarsest 
of  paper,  but  so  showily  bound  that  it  was  emblemati- 
cal of  the  Doctor  himself,  in  the  court  dress  which  he 
refused  to  wear  at  Paris  ;  nor  with  Webster's  Spelling- 
Book,  nor  some  of  Byron's  minor  poems,  nor  half  a 
dozen  little  Testaments  at  twenty-five  cents  each. 

Thus  far  the  collection  might  have  been  swept  from 
some  great  bookstore,  or  picked  up  at  an  evening  auc- 
tion-room; but  there  was  one  small  blue-covered  pam- 
phlet, which  the  pedler  handed  me  with  so  peculiar  an 
air,  that  I  purchased  it  immediately  at  his  own  price  ; 
and  then,  for  the  first  time,  the  thought  struck  me,  that 
I  had  spoken  face  to  face  with  the  veritable  author  of 
a  printed  book.  The  literary  man  now  evinced  a  great 
kindness  for  me,  and  I  ventured  to  inquire  which  way 
he  was  travelling. 

"  O,"  said  he,  "  I  keep  company  with  this  old  gentle- 
man here,  and  we  are  moving  now  towards  the  camp- 
meeting  at  Stamford ! " 


THE    SEVEX    VAGABOXDS.  131 

He  then  explained  to  me,  that  for  the  present  season 
he  had  rented  a  corner  of  the  wagon  as  a  bookstore, 
which,  as  he  wittily  observed,  was  a  true  Circulating 
Library,  since  there  were  few  parts  of  the  country  where 
it  had  not  gone  its  rounds.  I  approved  of  the  plan  ex- 
ceedingly, and  began  to  sum  up  within  my  mind  the 
many  uncommon  felicities  in  the  life  of  a  book-pedler, 
especially  when  his  character  resembled  that  of  the  in- 
dividual before  me.  At  a  high  rate  was  to  be  reckoned 
the  daily  and  hourly  enjoyment  of  such  interviews  as  the 
present,  in  which  he  seized  upon  the  admiration  of  a 
passing  stranger,  and  made  him  aware  that  a  man  of 
literary  taste,  and  even  of  literary  achievement,  was 
travelling  the  country  in  a  showman's  wagon.  A  more 
valuable,  yet  not  infrequent  triumph,  might  be  won 
in  his  conversation  with  some  elderly  clergyman,  long 
vegetating  in  a  rocky,  woody,  watery  back  settlement  of 
New  England,  who,  as  he  recruited  his  library  from  the 
pedler's  stock  of  sermons,  would  exhort  him  to  seek  a 
college  education  and  become  the  first  scholar  in  his 
class.  Sweeter  and  prouder  yet  would  be  his  sensations, 
when,  talking  poetry  while  he  sold  spelling-books,  he 
should  charm  the  mind,  and  haply  touch  the  heart  of 
a  fair  country  schoolmistress,  herself  an  unhonored 
poetess,  a  wearer  of  blue  stockings  which  none  but 
himself  took  pains  to  look  at.  But  the  scene  of  his 
completest  glory  would  be  when  the  wagon  had  halted 
for  the  night,  and  his  stock  of  books  was  transferred 
to  some  crowded  bar-room.  Then  would  he  recommend 
to  the  multifarious  company,  whether  traveller  from 
the  city,  or  teamster  from  the  hills,  or  neighboring 
squire,  or  the  landlord  himself,  or  his  loutish  hostler, 
works  suited  to  each  particular  taste  and  capacity; 
proving,  all  the  while,  by  acute  criticism  and  profound 


132  TWICE-TOLD    TALES. 

remark,  that  the  lore  iii  his  books  was  even  exceeded  by 
that  in  his  brain. 

Thus  happily  would  he  traverse  the  land ;  sometimes  a 
herald  before  the  march  of  Mind;  sometimes  walking 
arm  in  arm  with  awful  Literature ;  and  reaping-  every- 
where a  harvest  of  real  and  sensible  popularity,  which  the 
secluded  bookworms,  by  whose  toil  he  lived,  could  never 
hope  for. 

"  If  ever  I  meddle  with  literature,"  thought  I,  fixing 
myself  in  adamantine  resolution,  "  it  shall  be  as  a  travel- 
ling bookseller." 

Though  it  was  still  mid-afternoon,  the  air  had  now 
grown  dark  about  us,  and  a  few  drops  of  rain  came  down 
upon  the  roof  of  our  vehicle,  pattering  like  the  feet  of 
birds  that  had  flown  thither  to  rest.  A  sound  of  pleasant 
voices  made  us  listen,  and  there  soon  appeared  half-way 
up  the  ladder  the  pretty  person  of  a  young  damsel,  whose 
rosy  face  was  so  cheerful,  that  even  amid  the  gloomy  light 
it  seemed  as  if  the  sunbeams  were  peeping  under  her 
bonnet.  We  next  saw  the  dark  and  handsome  features 
of  a  young  man,  who,  with  easier  gallantry  than  might 
have  been  expected  in  the  heart  of  Yankee-land,  was 
assisting  her  into  the  wagon.  It  became  immediately 
evident  to  us,  when  the  two  strangers  stood  within  the 
door,  that  they  were  of  a  profession  kindred  to  those  of 
my  companions ;  and  I  was  delighted  with  the  more  than 
hospitable,  the  even  paternal  kindness,  of  the  old  show- 
man's manner,  as  he  welcomed  them  ;  while  the  man  of 
literature  hastened  to  lead  the  merry-eyed  girl  to  a  seat 
on  the  long  bench. 

"  You  are  housed  but  just  in  time,  my  young  friends," 
said  the  master  of  the  wagon.  "  The  sky  would  have 
been  down  upon  you  within  five  minutes." 

The  young  man's  reply  marked  him  as  a  foreigner,  not 


THE    SEVEN    VAGABONDS.  133 

by  any  variation  from  the  idiom  and  accent  of  good  Eng- 
lish, but  because  he  spoke  with  more  caution  and  accu- 
racy, than  if  perfectly  familiar  with  the  language. 

"We  knew  that  a  shower  was  hanging  over  us,"  said 
he,  "and  consulted  whether  it  were  best  to  enter  the 
house  on  the  top  of  yonder  hill,  but  seeing  your  wagon 
in  the  road  —  " 

"We  agreed  to  come  hither,"  interrupted  the  girl, 
with  a  smile,  "  because  we  should  be  more  at  home  in  a 
wandering  house  like  this." 

I,  meanwhile,  with  many  a  wild  and  undetermined  fan- 
tasy, was  narrowly  inspecting  these  two  doves  that  had 
flown  into  our  ark.  The  young  man,  tall,  agile,  and 
athletic,  wore  a  mass  of  black  shining  curls  clustering 
round  a  dark  and  vivacious  countenance,  which,  if  it  had 
not  greater  expression,  was  at  least  more  active,  and  at- 
tracted readier  notice,  than  the  quiet  faces  of  our  country- 
men. At  his  first  appearance,  he  had  been  laden  with  a 
neat  mahogany  box,  of  about  two  feet  square,  but  very 
light  in  proportion  to  its  sizs,  which  he  had  immediately 
unstrapped  from  his  shoulders  and  deposited  on  the  floor 
of  the  wagon. 

The  girl  had  nearly  as  fair  a  complexion  as  our  own 
beauties,  and  a  brighter  one  than  most  of  them  ;  the  light- 
ness of  her  figure,  which  seemed  calculated  to  traverse 
the  whole  world  without  weariness,  suited  well  with  the 
glowing  cheerfulness  of  her  face ;  and  her  gay  attire, 
combining  the  rainbow  hues  of  crimson,  green,  and  a 
deep  orang3,  was  as  proper  to  her  lightsome  aspect  as  if 
she  had  been  born  in  it.  This  gay  stranger  was  appro- 
priately burdened  with  that  mirth -inspiring  instrument, 
the  fiddle,  which  her  companion  took  from  her  hands,  and 
shortly  began  the  process  of  tuning.  Neither  of  us  — 
the  previous  company  of  the  wagon  —  needed  to  inquire 


134  TWICE-TOLD    TALES. 

their  trade  ;  for  this  could  be  no  mystery  to  frequenters 
of  brigade-musters,  ordinations,  cattle-shows,  commence- 
ments, and  other  festal  meetings  in  our  sober  laud  ;  and 
there  is  a  dear  friend  of  mine,  who  will  smile  when  this 
page  recalls  to  his  memory  a  chivalrous  deed  performed 
by  us,  in  rescuing  the  show-box  of  such  a  couple  from  a 
mob  of  great  double-fisted  countrymen. 

"  Come,"  said  I  to  the  damsel  of  gay  attire,  "  shall  we 
visit  all  the  wonders  of  the  world  together  ?  " 

She  understood  the  metaphor  at  once ;  though  indeed 
it  would  not  much  have  troubled  me,  if  she  had  assented 
to  the  literal  meaning  of  my  words.  The  mahogany  box 
was  placed  in  a  proper  position,  and  I  peeped  in  through 
its  small  round  magnifying  window,  while  the  girl  sat  by 
my  side,  and  gave  short  descriptive  sketches,  as  one  after 
another  the  pictures  were  unfolded  to  my  view.  We 
visited  together,  at  least  our  imaginations  did,  full  many  a 
famous  city,  in  the  streets  of  which  I  had  long  yearned 
to  tread ;  once,  I  remember,  we  were  in  the  harbor  of 
Barcelona,  gazing  townwards ;  next,  she  bore  me  through 
the  air  to  Sicily,  and  bade  me  look  up  at  blazing  jEtna ; 
then  we  took  wing  to  Yenice,  and  sat  in  a  gondola  be- 
neath the  arch  of  the  llialto ;  and  anon  she  sat  me  down 
among  the  thronged  spectators  at  the  coronation  of  Na- 
poleon. But  there  was  one  scene,  its  locality  she  could 
not  tell,  which  charmed  my  attention  longer  than  all  those 
gorgeous  palaces  and  churches,  because  the  fancy  haunted 
me,  that  I  myself,  the  preceding  summer,  had  beheld  just 
such  a  humble  meeting-house,  in  just  such  a  pine-sur- 
rounded nook,  among  our  own  green  mountains.  All 
these  pictures  were  tolerably  executed,  though  far  infe- 
rior to  the  girl's  touches  of  description ;  nor  was  it  easy 
to  comprehend,  how  in  so  few  sentences,  and  these,  as  I 
supposed,  in  a  language  foreign  to  her,  she  contrived  to 


THE    SEVEN    VAGABONDS.  135 

present  an  airy  copy  of  each  varied  scene.  When  we  had 
travelled  through  the  vast  extent  of  the  mahogany  box, 
I  looked  into  my  guide's  face. 

"  Where  are  you  going,  my  pretty  maid  ?  "  inquired  I, 
in  the  words  of  an  old  song. 

"  Ah,"  said  the  gay  damsel,  "  you  might  as  well  ask 
where  the  summer  wind  is  going.  We  are  wanderers 
here,  and  there,  and  everywhere.  Wherever  there  is 
mirth,  our  merry  hearts  are  drawn  to  it.  To-day,  indeed, 
the  people  have  told  us  of  a  great  frolic  and  festival  in 
these  parts ;  so  perhaps  we  may  be  needed  at  what  you 
call  the  camp-meeting  at  Stamford." 

Then  in  my  happy  youth,  and  while  her  pleasant  voice 
yet  sounded  in  my  ears,  I  sighed ;  for  none  but  myself, 
I  thought,  should  have  been  her  companion  in  a  life 
which  seemed  to  realize  my  own  wild  fancies,  cherished 
all  through  visionary  boyhood  to  that  hour.  To  these 
two  strangers  the  world  was  in  its  golden  age,  not  that 
indeed  it  was  less  dark  and  sad  than  ever,  but  because 
its  weariness  and  sorrow  had  110  community  with  their 
ethereal  nature.  Wherever  they  might  appear  in  their 
pilgrimage  of  bliss,  Youth  would  echo  back  their  glad- 
iiass,  care-stricken  Maturity  would  rest  a  moment  from 
its  toil,  and  Age,  tottering  among  the  graves,  would  smile 
in  withered  joy  for  their  sakes.  The  lonely  cot,  the  nar- 
row and  gloomy  street,  the  sombre  shade,  would  catch  a 
passing  gleam  like  that  now  shining  on  ourselves,  as  these 
bright  spirits  wandered  by.  Blessed  pair,  whose  happy 
home  was  throughout  all  the  earth !  I  looked  at  my 
shoulders,  and  thought  them  broad  enough  to  sustain 
those  pictured  towns  and  mountains ;  mine,  too,  was  an 
elastic  foot,  as  tireless  as  the  wing  of  the  bird  of  para- 
dise ;  mine  was  then  an  untroubled  heart,  that  would 
have  gone  singing  on  its  dalightful  way. 


130  TWICE-TOLD    TALES. 

"  O  maiden !  "  said  I  aloud,  "  why  did  you  not  come 
hither  alone  ?  " 

While  the  merry  girl  and  myself  were  busy  with  the 
show-box,  the  unceasing  rain  had  driven  another  way- 
farer into  the  wagon.  He  seemed  pretty  nearly  of  the 
old  showman's  age,  but  much  smaller,  leaner,  and  more 
withered  than  he,  and  less  respectably  clad  in  a  patched 
suit  of  gray ;  withal,  he  had  a  thin,  shrewd  countenance, 
and  a  pair  of  diminutive  gray  eyes,  which  peeped  ralher 
too  keenly  out  of  their  puckered  sockets.  This  old  fellow 
had  been  joking  with  the  showman,  in  a  manner  which 
intimated  previous  acquaintance  ;  but  perceiving  that  the 
damsel  and  I  had  terminated  our  affairs,  he  drew  forth  a 
folded  document,  and  presented  it  to  me.  As  I  had  an- 
ticipated, it  proved  to  be  a  circular,  written  in  a  very 
fair  and  legible  hand,  and  signed  by  several  distinguished 
gentlemen  whom  I  had  never  heard  of,  stating  that  the 
bearer  had  encountered  every  variety  of  .misfortune,  and 
recommending  him  to  the  notice  of  all  charitable  people. 
Previous  disbursements  had  left  me  no  more  than  a  five- 
dollar  bill,  out  of  which,  however,  I  offered  to  make  the 
beggar  a  donation,  provided  he  would  give  me  change  for 
it.  The  object  of  my  beneficence  looked  keenly  in  my 
face,  and  discerned  that  I  had  none  of  that  abominable 
spirit,  characteristic  though  it  be,  of  a  full-blooded  Yan- 
kee, which  takes  pleasure  in  detecting  every  little  harm- 
less piece  of  knavery. 

"  Why,  perhaps,"  said  the  ragged  old  mendicant,  "  if 
the  bank  is  in  good  standing,  I  can't  say  but  I  may  have 
enough  about  me  to  change  your  bill." 

"  It  is  a  bill  of  the  Suffolk  Bank,"  said  I,  "  and  better 
than  the  specie." 

As  the  beggar  had  nothing  to  object,  he  now  produced 
a  small  buff-leather  bag,  tied  up  carefully  with  a  shoe- 


THE    SEVEN    VAGABONDS.  137 

string.  When  this  was  opened,  there  appeared  a  very 
comfortable  treasure  of  silver  coins  of  all  sorts  and  sizes  ; 
and  I  even  fancied  that  I  saw,  gleaming  among  them,  the 
golden  plumage  of  that  rare  bird  in  our  currency,  the 
American  Eagle.  In  this  precious  heap  was  my  bank- 
note deposited,  the  rate  of  exchange  being  considerably 
against  me.  His  wants  being  thus  relieved,  the  destitute 
man  pulled  out  of  his  pocket  an  old  pack  of  greasy  cards,, 
which  had  probably  contributed  to  fill  the  buff-leather 
bag,  in  more  ways  than  one. 

"  Come,"  said  he,  "  I  spy  a  rare  fortune  in  your 
facs,  and  for  twenty-five  cents  more,  I  '11  tell  you  what 
it  is." 

I  never  refuse  to  take  a  glimpse  into  futurity  ;  so, 
after  shuffling  the  cards,  and  when  the  fair  damsel  had  cut 
them,  I  dealt  a  portion  to  the  prophetic  beggar.  Like 
others  of  his  profession,  before  predicting  the  shadowy 
events  that  were  moving  on  to  meet  me,  he  gave  proof 
of  his  preternatural  science,  by  describing  scenes  through 
which  I  had  already  passed.  Here  let  me  have  credit  for 
a  sober  fact.  When  the  old  man  had  read  a  page  in  his 
book  of  fate,  he  bent  his  keen  gray  eyes  on  mine,  and 
proceeded  to  relate,  in  all  its  minute  particulars,  what 
was  then  the  most  singular  event  of  my  life.  It  was  one 
which  I  had  no  purpose  to  disclose,  till  the  general  un- 
folding of  all  secrets ;  nor  would  it  be  a  much  stranger 
instance  of  inscrutable  knowledge,  or  fortunate  conjecture, 
if  the  beggar  were  to  meet  me  in  the  street  to-day,  and  re- 
peat, word  for  word,  the  page  which  I  have  here  written. 
The  fortune-teller,  after  predicting  a  destiny  which  time 
seems  loath  to  make  good,  put  up  his  cards,  secreted  his 
treasure-bag,  and  began  to  converse  with  the  other  occu- 
pants of  the  wagon. 

"  Well,  old  friend,"  said  the  showman,  "  you  have  not 


138  T\VICE-TOLD    TALES. 

yet  told  us  which  way  your  face  is  turned  this  after- 
noon." 

"  I  am  taking  a  trip  northward,  this  warm  weather," 
replied  the  conjurer,  "  across  the  Connecticut  first,  and 
then  up  through  Vermont,  and  may  be  into  Canada  before 
the  fall.  But  I  must  stop  and  see  the  breaking  up  of 
the  camp-meeting  at  Stamford." 

I  began  to  think  that  all  the  vagrants  in  New  England 
were  converging  to  the  camp-meeting,  and  had  made  this 
wagon  their  rendezvous  by  the  way.  The  showman  now 
proposed  that,  when  the  shower  was  over,  they  should 
pursue  the  road  to  Stamford  together,  it  being  sometimes 
the  policy  of  these  people  to  form  a  sort  of  league  and 
confederacy. 

"  And  the  young  lady  too,"  observed  the  gallant  bib- 
liopolist,  bowing  to  her  profoundly,  "and  this  foreign 
gentleman,  as  I  understand,  are  on  a  jaunt  of  pleasure 
to  the  same  spot.  It  would  add  incalculably  to  my  own 
enjoyment,  and  I  presume  to  that  of  my  colleague  and 
his  friend,  if  they  could  be  prevailed  upon  to  join  our 
party." 

This  arrangement  met  with  approbation  on  all  hands, 
nor  were  any  of  those  concerned  more  sensible  of  its  ad- 
vantages than  myself,  who  had  no  title  to  be  included  in 
it.  Having  already  satisfied  myself  as  to  the  several 
modes  in  which  the  four  others  attained  felicity,  I  next 
set  my  mind  at  work  to  discover  what  enjoyments  were 
peculiar  to  the  old  "  Straggler,"  as  the  people  of  the 
country  would  have  termed  the  wandering  mendicant  and 
prophet.  As  he  pretended  to  familiarity  with  the  Devil, 
so  I  fancied  that  he  was  fitted  to  pursue  and  take  delight 
in  his  way  of  life,  by  possessing  some  of  the  mental  and 
moral  characteristics,  the  lighter  and  more  comic  ones* 
of  the  Devil  in  popular  stories.  Among  them  might  be 


THE    SEVEN    VAGABONDS.  139 

reckoned  a  love  of  deception  for  its  own  sake,  a  shrewd 
eye  and  keen  relish  for  human  weakness  and  ridiculous 
infirmity,  and  the  talent  of  petty  fraud.  Thus  to  this  old 
man  there  would  be  pleasure  even  in  the  consciousness, 
so  insupportable  to  some  minds,  that  his  whole  life  was 
a  cheat  upon  the  world,  and  that,  so  far  as  he  was  con- 
cerned with  the  public,  his  little  cunning  had  the  upper 
hand  of  its  united  wisdom.  Every  day  would  furnish 
him.  with  a  succession  of  minute  and  pungent  triumphs  : 
as  when,  for  instance,  his  importunity  wrung  a  pittance 
out  of  the  heart  of  a  miser,  or  when  my  silly  good-na- 
ture transferred  a  part  of  my  slender  purse  to  his  plump 
leather  bag ;  or  when  some  ostentatious  gentleman  should 
throw  a  coin  to  the  ragged  beggar  who  was  richer  than 
himself;  or  when,  though  he  would  not  always  be  so 
decidedly  diabolical,  his  pretended  wants  should  make 
him  a  sharer  in  the  scanty  living  of  real  indigence.  And 
then  what  an  inexhaustible  field  of  enjoyment,  both  as 
enabling  him  to  discern  so  much  folly  and  achieve  such 
quantities  of  minor  mischief,  was  opened  to  his  sneering 
spirit  by  his  pretensions  to  prophetic  knowledge. 

All  this  was  a  sort  of  happiness  which  I  could  conceive 
of,  though  I  had  little  sympathy  with  it.  Perhaps,  had 
I  been  then  inclined  to  admit  it,  I  might  have  found  that 
the  roving  life  was  more  proper  to  him  than  to  either  of 
his  companions ;  for  Satan,  to  whom  I  had  compared  the 
poor  man,  has  delighted,  ever  since  the  time  of  Job,  in 
"wandering  up  and  down  upon  the  earth"  ;  and  indeed 
a  crafty  disposition,  which  operates  not  in  deep-laid 
plans,  but  in  disconnected  tricks,  could  not  have  an  ad- 
equate scope,  unless  naturally  impelled  to  a  continual 
change  of  scene  and  society.  My  reflections  were  here 
interrupted. 

"  Another  visitor !  "  exclaimed  the  old  showman. 


14-0     .  TWICE-TOLD    TALES. 

The  door  of  the  wagon  had  been  closed  against  the 
tempest,  which'was  roaring  and  blustering  with  prodigious 
fury  and  commotion,  and  beating  violently  against  our 
shelter,  as  if  it  claimed  all  those  homeless  people  for  its 
lawful  prey,  while  we,  caring  little  for  the  displeasure  of 
the  elements,  sat  comfortably  talking.  There  was  now 
an  attempt  to  open  the  door,  succeeded  by  a  voice,  ut- 
tering some  strange,  unintelligible  gibberish,  which  my 
companions  mistook  for  Greek,  and  I  suspected  to  be 
thieves'  Latin.  However,  the  showman  stepped  forward, 
and  gave  admittance  to  a  figure  which  made  me  imagine, 
either  that  our  wagon  had  rolled  back  two  hundred  years 
into  past  ages,  or  that  the  forest  and  its  old  inhabitants 
had  sprung  up  around  us  by  enchantment. 

It  was  a  red  Indian,  armed  with  his  bow-  and  arrow. 
His  dress  was  a  sort  of  cap,  adorned  with  a  single  feather 
of  some  wild  bird,  and  a  frock  of  blue  cotton,  girded 
tight  about  him ;  on  his  breast,  like  orders  of  knight- 
hood, hung  a  crescent  and  a  circle,  and  other  ornaments 
of  silver;  while  a  small  crucifix  betokened  that  our 
Father  the  Pope  had  interposed  between  the  Indian  and 
the  Great  Spirit,  whom  he  had  worshipped  in  his  sim- 
plicity. This  son  of  the  wilderness,  and  pilgrim  of 
the  storm,  took  his  place  silently  in  the  midst  of  us. 
When  the  first  surprise  was  over,  I  rightly  conjectured 
him  to  be  one  of  the  Penobscot  tribe,  parties  of  which  I 
had  often  seen,  in  their  summer  excursions  down  our 
Eastern  rivers.  There  they  paddle  their  birch  canoes 
among  the  coasting  schooners,  and  build  their  wigwam 
beside  some  roaring  milldam,  and  drive  a  little  trade  in 
basket-work  where  their  fathers  hunted  deer.  Our  new 
visitor  was  probably  wandering  through  the  country 
towards  Boston,  subsisting  on  the  careless  charity  of  the 
people,  while  he  turned  his  archery  to  profitable  account 


THE    SEVEN    VAGABONDS.  141 

by  shooting  at  cents,  which  were  to  be  the  prize  of  his 
successful  aim. 

The  Indian  had  not  long  been  seated,  ere  our  merry 
damsel  sought  to  draw  him  into  conversation.  She,  in- 
deed, seemed  all  made  up  of  sunshine  in  the  mouth  of 
May ;  for  there  was  nothing  so  dark  and  dismal  that  her 
pleasant  mind  could  not  cast  a  glow  over  it;  and  the 
wild  man,  like  a  fir-tree  in  his  native  forest,  soon  began 
to  brighten  into  a  sort  of  sombre  cheerfulness.  At  length, 
she  inquired  whether  his  journey  had  any  particular  end 
or  purpose. 

"  I  go  shoot  at  the  camp-meeting  at  Stamford,"  replied 
the  Indian. 

"And  here  are  five  more,"  said  the  girl,  "all  aiming 
at  the  camp-meeting  too.  You  shall  be  one  of  us,  for  we 
travel  with  light  hearts ;  and  as  for  me,  I  sing  merry 
songs,  and  tell  merry  tales,  and  am  fall  of  merry  thoughts, 
and  I  dance  merrily  along  the  road,  so  that  there  is  never 
any  sadness  among  them  that  keep  me  company.  But, 
0,  you  would  find  it  very  dull  indeed,  to  go  all  the  way 
to  Stamford  alone  !  " 

My  ideas  of  the  aboriginal  character  led  me  to  fear  that 
the  Indian  would  prefer  his  own  solitary  musings  to  the 
giy  society  thus  offered  him ;  on  the  contrary,  the  girl's 
proposal  met  with  immediate  acceptance,  and  seemed  to 
animate  him  with  a  misty  expectation  of  enjoyment.  I 
now  gave  myself  up  to  a  course  of  thought  which,  whether 
it  flowed  naturally  from  this  combination  of  events,  or 
was  drawn  forth  by  a  wayward  fancy,  caused  my  mind  to 
thrill  as  if  I  were  listening  to  deep  music.  I  saw  man- 
kind, in  this  weary  old  age  of  the  world,  either  enduring 
a  sluggish  existence  amid  the  smoke  and  dust  of  cities, 
or,  if  they  breathed  a  purer  air,  still  lying  down  at  night 
with  no  hope  but  to  wear  out  to-morrow,  and  all  the 


142  TWICE-TOLD   TALES. 

-  to-morrows  which  make  up  life,  among  the  same  dull 
scenes  and  in.  the  same  wretched  toil  that  had  darkened 
the  sunshine  of  to-day.  But  there  were  some,  full  of  the 
primeval  instinct,  who  preserved  the  freshness  of  youth 
to  their  latest  years  by  the  continual  excitement  of  new 
objects,  new  pursuits,  and  new  associates;  and  cared 
little,  though  their  birthplace  might  have  been  here  in 
New  England,  if  the  grave  should  close  over  them  in 
Central  Asia.  Fate  was  summoning  a  parliament  of 
these  free  spirits;  unconscious  of  the  impulse  whirh 
directed  them  to  a  common  centre,  they  had  come  hither 
from  far  and  near;  and  last  of  all  appeared  the  repre- 
sentative of  those  mighty  vagrants,  who  had  chased  the 
deer  during  thousands  of  years,  and  were  chasing  it  now 
in  the  Spirit  Land.  Wandering  down  through  the  waste 
of  ages,  the  woods  had  vanished  around  his  path ;  his 
arm  had  lost  somewhat  of  its  strength,  his  foot  of  its 
fleetness,  his  mien  of  its  wild  regality,  his  heart  and  mind 
of  their  savage  virtue  and  uncultured  force ;  but  here, 
untamable  to  the  routine  of  artificial  life,  roving  now 
along  the  dusty  road,  as  of  old  over  the  forest  leaves, 
here  was  the  Indian  still. 

"Well,"  said  the  old  showman,  in  the  midst  of  my 
meditations,  "  here  is  an  honest  company  of  us,  —  one, 
two,  three,  four,  five,  six,  —  all  going  to  the  camp-meet- 
ing at  Stamford.  Now,  hoping  no  offence,  I  should  like 
to  know  where  this  young  gentleman  may  be  going  ?  " 

I  started.  How  came  I  among  these  wanderers  ? 
The  free  mind,  that  preferred  its  own  folly  to  another's 
wisdom ;  the  open  spirit,  that  found  companions  every- 
where ;  above  all,  the  restless  impulse,  that  had  so  often 
made  me  wretehed  in  the  midst  of  enjoyments :  these 
were  my  claims  to  be  of  their  society. 

"My  friends!"  cried  I,  stepping  into  the  centre  of 


THE    SEVEN    VAGABONDS.  143 

the  wagon,  "  I  am  going  with  you  to  the  camp-meeting 
at  Stamford." 

"  But  in  what  capacity  ? "  asked  the  old  showman, 
after  a  moment's  silence.  "  All  of  us  here  can  get  our 
bread  in  some  creditable  way.  Every  honest  man  should 
have  his  livelihood.  You,  sir,  as  I  take  it,  are  a  mere 
strolling  gentleman." 

I  proceeded  to  inform  the  company,  that,  when  Nature 
gave  me  a  propensity  to  their  way  of  life,  she  had  not 
left  me  altogether  destitute  of  qualifications  for  it; 
though  I  could  not  deny  that  my  talent  was  less  re- 
spectable, and  might  be  less  profitable,  than  the  meanest 
of  theirs.  My  design,  in  short,  was  to  imitate  the  story- 
tellers of  whom  Oriental  travellers  have  told  us,  and  be- 
come an  itinerant  novelist,  reciting  my  own  extempora- 
neous fictions  to  such  audiences  as  I  could  collect. 

"Either  this,"  said  I,  "is  my  vocation,  or  I  have  been 
born  in  vain." 

The  fortune-teller,  with  a  sly  wink  to  the  company, 
proposed  to  take  me  as  an  apprentice  to  one  or  other 
of  his  professions,  either  of  which,  undoubtedly,  would 
have  given  full  scope  to  whatever  inventive  talent  I 
might  possess.  The  bibliopolist  spoke  a  few  words  in 
opposition  to  my  plan,  influenced  partly,  I  suspect,  by 
the  jealousy  of  authorship,  and  partly  by  an  apprehension 
that  the  viva  voce  practice  would  become  general  among 
novelists,  to  the  infinite  detriment  of  the  book-trade. 
Dreading  a  rejection,  I  solicited  the  interest  of  the  merry 
damsel. 

"Mirth,"  cried  I,  most  aptly  appropriating  the  words 
of  L'Allegro,  "  to  thee  I  sue  !  Mirth,  admit  me  of  thy 
crew  ! " 

"Let  us  indulge  the  poor  youth,"  said  Mirth,  with  a 
kindness  which  made  me  love  her  dearly,  though  I  was 


144  TWICE-TOLD    TALES. 

no  sucli  coxcomb  as  to  misinterpret  her  motives.  "I 
have  espied  much  promise  in  him.  True,  a  shadow  some- 
times flits  across  his  brow,  but  the  sunshine  is  sure  to 
follow  in  a  moment.  He  is  never  guilty  of  a  sad  thought, 
but  a  merry  one  is  twin  born  with  it.  We  will  take  him 
with  us;  and  you  shall  see  that  he  will  set  us  all 
a-laughiug  before  we  reach  the  camp-meeting  at  Stam- 
ford." 

Her  voice  silenced  the  scruples  of  the  rest,  and  gained 
me  admittance  into  the  league  ;  according  to  the  terms 
of  which,  without  a  community  of  goods  or  profits,  we 
were  to  lend  each  other  all  the  aid,  and  avert  all  the 
harm,  that  might  be  in  our  power.  This  affair  settled, 
a  marvellous  jollity  entered  into  the  whole  tribe  of  us, 
manifesting  itself  characteristically  in  each  individual. 
The  old  showman,  sitting  down  to  his  barrel-organ, 
stirred  up  the  souls  of  the  pygmy  people  with  one  of 
the  quickest  tunes  in  the  music-book ;  tailors,  black- 
smiths, gentlemen,  and  ladies,  all  seemed  to  share  in  the 
spirit  of  the  occasion ;  and  the  Merry -Andrew  played 
his  part  more  facetiously  than  ever,  nodding  and  wink- 
ing particularly  at  me.  The  young  foreigner  flourished 
his  fiddle-bow  with  a  master's  hand,  and  gave  an  inspir- 
ing echo  to  the  showman's  melody.  The  bookish  man 
and  the  merry  damsel  started  up  simultaneously  to  dance ; 
the  former  enacting  the  double  shuffle  in  a  style  which 
everybody  must  have  witnessed,  ere  Election  week  was 
blotted  out  of  time ;  while  the  girl,  setting  her  arms 
akimbo  with  both  hands  at  her  slim  waist,  displayed 
such  light  rapidity  of  foot,  and  harmony  of  varying  atti- 
tude and  motion,  that  I  could  not  conceive  how  she  ever 
was  to  stop;  imagining,  at  the  moment,  that  Nature  had 
made  her,  as  the  old  showrman  had  made  his  puppets,  for 
no  earthly  purpose  but  to  dance  jigs.  The  Indian  bel- 


THE    SEVEN    VAGABONDS.  145 

lowed  forth  a  succession  of  most  hideous  outcries,  some- 
what affrighting1  us,  till  we  interpreted  them  as  the  war- 
song,  with  which,  in  imitation  of  his  ancestors,  he  was 
prefacing  the  assault  on  Stamford.  The  conjurer,  mean- 
while, sat  demurely  in  a  corner,  extracting  a  sly  enjoy- 
ment from  the  whole  scene,  and,  like  the  facetious  Merry- 
Andrew,  directing  his  queer  glance  particularly  at  me. 

As  for  myself,  with  great  exhilaration  of  fancy,  I 
b?gan  to  arrange  and  color  the  incidents  of  a  tale,  where- 
with I  proposed  to  amuse  an  audience  that  very  evening ; 
for  I  saw  that  my  associates  were  a  little  ashamed  of  me, 
and  that  no  time  was  to  be  lost  in  obtaining  a  public  ac- 
knowledgment of  my  abilities. 

"  Coins,  fellow-laborers,"  at  last  said  the  old  show- 
man, whom  we  had  elected  President ;  "  the  shower  is 
over,  and  we  must  be  doing  our  duty  by  these  poor  souls 
at  Stamford." 

"  We  '11  come  among  them  in  procession,  with  music 
and  dancing,"  cried  the  merry  damsel. 

Accordingly  —  for  it  must  be  understood  that  our 
pilgrimage  was  to  be  performed  on  foot  —  we  sallied 
joyously  out  of  the  wagon,  each  of  us,  even  the  old 
gentleman  in  his  white-top  boots,  giving  a  great  skip  as 
we  came  down  the  ladder.  Above  our  heads  there  was 
such  a  glory,  of  sunshine  and  splendor  of  clouds,  and 
such  brightness  of  verdure  below,  that,  as  I  modestly 
remarked  at  the  time,  Nature  seemed  to. have  washed 
her  face,  and  put  on  the  best  of  her  jewelry  and  a  fresh 
green  gown,  in  honor  of  our  confederation.  Casting  our 
eyes  northward,  we  beheld  a  horseman  approaching  leis- 
urely, and  splashing  through  the  little  puddles  on  the 
Stamford  road.  Onward  he  came,  sticking  up  in  his 
saddle  with  rigid  perpendicularity,  a  tall,  thin  figure  in 
rusty  black,  whom  the  showman  and  the  conjurer  shortly 

VOL.  II.  7  J 


146  TWICE-TOLD   TALES. 

recognized  to  be,  what  his  aspect  sufficiently  indicated,  a 
travelling  preacher  of  great  fame  among  the  Methodists. 
What  puzzled  us  was  the  fact,  that  his  face  appeared 
turned  from,  instead  of  to,  the  camp-meeting  at  Stam- 
ford. However,  as  this  new  votary  of  the  wandering 
life  drew  near  the  little  green  space,  where  the  guidepost 
and  our  wagon  were  situated,  my  six  fellow- vagabonds 
and  myself  rushed  forward  and  surrounded  him,  crying 
out  with  united  voices,  — 

"What  news,  what  news  from  the  camp-meeting  at 
Stamford  ?  " 

The  missionary  looked  down,  in  surprise,  at  as  singu- 
lar a  knot  of  people  as  could  have  been  selected  from  all 
his  heterogeneous  auditors.  Indeed,  considering  that  we 
might  all  be  classified  under  the  general  head  of  Vaga- 
bond, there  was  great  diversity  of  character  among  the 
grave  old  showman,  the  sly,  prophetic  beggar,  the  fid- 
dling foreigner  and  his  merry  damsel,  the  smart  bibliop- 
olist,  the  sombre  Indian,  and  myself,  the  itinerant  nov- 
elist, a  slender  youth  of  eighteen.  I  even  fancied  that 
a  smile  was  endeavoring  to  disturb  the  iron  gravity  of 
the  preacher's  mouth. 

"  Good  people,"  answered  he,  "  the  camp-meeting  is 
broke  up." 

So  saying,  the  Methodist  minister  switched  his  steed, 
and  rode  westward.  Our  union  being  thus  nullified,  by 
the  removal  of  its  object,  we  were  sundered  at  once  to 
the  four  winds  of  heaven.  The  fortune-teller,  giving  a 
nod  to  all,  and  a  peculiar  wink  to  me,  departed  on  his 
northern  tour,  chuckling  within  himself  as  he  took  the 
Stamford  road.  The  old  showman  and  his  literary  co- 
adjutor were  already  tackling  their  horses  to  the  wagon, 
with  a  design  to  peregrinate  southwest  along  the  sea- 
coast.  The  foreigner  and  the  merry  damsel  took  their 


THE    SEVEN    VAGABONDS.  14-7 

laughing  leave,  and  pursued  the  eastern  road,  which  I 
had  that  day  trodden ;  as  they  passed  away,  the  young 
man  played  a  lively  strain,  and  the  girl's  happy  spirit 
broke  into  a  dance  ;  and  thus,  dissolving,  as  it  were, 
into  sunbeams  and  gay  music,  that  pleasant  pair  de- 
parted from  my  view.  Finally,  with  a  pensive  shadow 
thrown  across  my  mind,  yet  emulous  of  the  light  philos- 
ophy of  my  late  companions,  I  joined  myself  to  the 
Penobscot  Indian,  and  set  forth  towards  the  distant 
city. 


THE  WHITE   OLD   MAID. 

|HE   moonbeams  came   through   two   deep   and 
narrow  windows,  and  showed  a  spacious  cham- 

ber,    richly   furnished   in    an   antique   fashion. 

i'rom  one  lattice,  the  shadow  of  the  diamond  panes  was 
thrown  upon  the  floor  ;  the  ghostly  light,  through  the 
other,  slept  upon  a  bed,  falling  between  the  heavy 
silken  curtains,  and  illuminating  the  face  of  a  young 
man.  But,  ho\v  quietly  the  slumberer  lay  !  how  pale  his 
features  !  and  how  like  a  shroud  the  sheet  was  wound 
about  his  frame !  Yes ;  it  was  a  corpse,  in  its  burial- 
clothes. 

Suddenly,  the  fixed  features  seemed  to  move,  with 
dark  emotion.  Strange  fantasy  !  It  was  but  the  shadow 
of  the  fringed  curtain,  waving  betwixt  the  dead  face 
and  the  moonlight,  as  the  door  of  the  chamber  opened, 
and  a  girl  stole  softly  to  the  bedside.  Was  there  delu- 
sion in  the  moonbeams,  or  did  her  gesture  and  her  eye 
betray  a  gleam  of  triumph,  as  she  bent  over  the  pale 
corpse  —  pale  as  itself — and  pressed  her  living  lips  to 
the  cold  ones  of  the  dead  ?  As  she  drew  back  from  that 
long  kiss,  her  features  writhed,  as  if  a  proud  heart  Avere 
fighting  with  its  anguish.  Again  it  seemed  that  the 
features  of  the  corpse  had  moved  responsive  to  her. 
own.  Still  an  illusion !  The  silken  curtain  had  waved, 


THE    WHITE    OLD    MAID.  14)9 

a  second  time,  betwixt  the  dead  face  and  the  moonlight, 
as  another  fair  young  girl  unclosed  the  door,  and  glided, 
ghost-like,  to  the  bedside.  There  the  two  maidens 
stood,  both  beautiful,  with  the  pale  beauty  of  the  dead 
between  them.  But  she,  who  had  first  entered,  was 
proud  and  stately;  and  the  other,  a  soft  and  fragile 
thing. 

"Away!"  cried  the  lofty  one.  "Thou  hadst  him 
living !  The  dead  is  mine  !  " 

"Thine!"  returned  the  other,  shuddering.  "Well 
hast  thou  spoken  !  The  dead  is  thine  !  " 

The  proud  girl  started,  and  stared  into  her  face,  with 
a  ghastly  look.  But  a  wild  and  mournful  expression 
passed  across  the  features  of  the  gentle  one  ;  and,  weak 
and  helpless,  she  sank  down  on  the  bed,  her  head  pil- 
lowed beside  that  of  the  corpse,  and  her  hair  mingling 
with  his  dark  locks.  A  creature  of  hope  and  joy,  the 
first  draught  of  sorrow  had  bewildered  hsr. 

"  Edith  !  "  cried  her  rival. 

Edith  groaned,  as  with  a  sudden  compression  of  the 
heart;  and  removing  her  cheek  from  the  dead  youth's 
pillow,  she  stood  upright,  fearfully  encountering  the 
eyes  of  the  lofty  girl. 

"  Wilt  thou  betray  me  ?  "  said  the  latter,  calmly. 

"Till  the  dead  bid  me  speak,  I  will  be  silent,"  an- 
swered Edith.  "Leave  us  alone  together!  Go,  and 
live  many  years,  and  then  return,  and  tell  me  of  thy 
life.  He,  too,  will  be  here  !  Then,  if  thou  tellesfc 
of  sufferings  more  than  death,  we  will  both  forgive 
thee." 

"And  what  shall  be  the  token?"  asked  the  proud 
girl,  as  if  her  heart  acknowledged  a  meaning  in  these 
wild  words. 

"  This  lock  of  hair,"  said  Edith,  lifting  one  of  the 


150  TWICE-TOLD    TALES. 

dark,  clustering  curls,  that  lay  heavily  on  the  dead  man's 
brow. 

The  two  maidens  joined  their  hands  over  the  bosom  of 
the  corpse,  and  appointed  a  day  and  hour,  far,  far  in  time 
to  come,  for  their  next  meeting  in  that  chamber.  The 
statelier  girl  gave  one  deep  look  at  the  motionless  coun- 
tenance, and  departed,  —  yet  turned  again  and  trembled, 
ere  she  closed  the  door,  almost  believing  that  her  dead 
lover  frowned  upon  her.  And  Edith,  too  !  Was  not  her 
white  form  fading  into  the  moonlight  ?  Scorning  her  own 
weakness,  she  went  forth,  and  perceived  that  a  negro 
slave  was  waiting  in  the  passage,  with  a  wax  light,  which 
he  held  between  her  face  and  his  own,  and  regarded  her, 
as  she  thought,  with  an  ugly  expression  of  merriment. 
Lifting  his  torch  on  high,  the  slave  lighted  her  down  the 
staircase,  and  undid  the  portal  of  the  mansion.  The 
young  clergyman  of  the  town  had  just  ascended  the 
steps,  and  bowing  to  the  lady,  passed  in  without  a 
word. 

Years,  many  years  rolled  on ;  the  world  seemed  new 
again,  so  much  older  was  it  grown,  since  the  night  when 
those  pale  girls  had  clasped  their  hands  across  the  bosom 
of  the  corpse.  In  the  interval,  a  lonely  woman  had 
passed  from  youth  to  extreme  age,  and  was  known  by 
all  the  town,  as  the  "  Old  Maid  in  the  Winding-Sheet." 
A  taint  of  insanity  had  affected  her  whole  life,  but  so 
quiet,  sad,  and  gentle,  so  utterly  free  from  violence,  that 
she  was  suffered  to  pursue  her  harmless  fantasies,  unmo- 
lested by  the  world,  with  whose  business  or  pleasures  she 
had  naught  to  do.  She  dwelt  alone,  and  never  came  into 
the  daylight,  except  to  follow  funerals.  Whenever  a 
corpse  was  borne  along  the  street,  in  sunshine,  rain,  or 
snow,  whether  a  pompous  train,  of  the  rich  and  proud, 
thronged  after  it,  or  few  and  humble  were  the  mourners, 


THE   WHITE    OLD    MAID.  151 

behind  them  came  the  lonely  woman,  in  a  long,  white 
garment,  which  the  people  called  her  shroud.  She  took 
no  place  among  the  kindred  or  the  friends,  but  stood  at 
the  door  to  hear  the  funeral  prayer,  and  walked  in  the 
rear  of  the  procession,  as  one  whose  earthly  charge  it  was 
to  haunt  the  house  of  mourning,  and  be  the  shadow  of 
affliction,  and  see  that  the  dead  were  duly  buried.  So 
long  had  this  been  her  custom,  that  the  inhabitants  of  • 
the  town  deemed  her  a  part  of  every  funeral,  as  much  as 
the  coffin  pall,  or  the  very  corpse  itself,  and  augured  ill 
of  the  sinner's  destiny,  unless  the  "Old  Maid  in  the 
Winding-Sheet"  came  gliding,  like  a  ghost,  behind. 
Once,  it  is  said,  she  affrighted  a  bridal  party,  with  her 
pale  presence,  appearing  suddenly  in  the  illuminated  hall, 
just  as  the  priest  was  uniting  a  false  maid  to  a  wealthy 
man,  before  her  lover  had  been  dead  a  year.  Evil  was 
the  omen  to  that  marriage  !  Sometimes  she  stole  forth 
by  moonlight,  and  visited  the  graves  of  venerable  Integ- 
rity, and  wedded  Love,  and  virgin  Innocence,  and  every 
spot  where  the  ashes  of  a  kind  and  faithful  heart  were 
mouldering.  Over  the  hillocks  of  those  favored  dead 
would  she  stretch  out  her  arms,  with  a  gesture,  as  if 
she  were  scattering  seeds ;  and  many  believed  that 
she  brought  them  from  the  gardsn  of  Paradise ;  for  the 
graves,  which  she  had  visited,  were  green  beneath  the 
snow,  and  covered  with  sweet  flowers  from  April  to 
November.  Her  blessing  was  better  than  a  holy  verse 
upon  the  tombstone.  Thus  wore  away  her  long,  sad, 
peaceful,  and  fantastic  life,  till  few  were  so  old  as  she, 
and  the  people  of  later  generations  wondered  how  the 
dead  had  ever  been  buried,  or  mourners  had  endured 
their  grief,  without  the  "Old  Maid  in  the  Wiuding- 
Sheet." 

Still,  years  went  on,  and  still  she  followed  funsrals, 


152  TWICE-TOLD   TALES. 

and  was  not  yet  summoned  to  her  own  festival  of  death. 
One  afternoon,  the  great  street  of  the  town  was  all  alive 
with  business  and  bustle,  though  the  sun  now  gilded  only 
the  upper  half  of  the  church-spire,  having  left  the  house- 
tops and  loftiest  trees  in  shadow.  The  scene  was  cheer- 
ful and  animated,  in  spite  of  the  sombre  shade  between 
the  high  brick  buildings.  Here  were  pompous  merchants, 
in  white  wigs  and  laced  velvet ;  the  bronzed  faces  of  sea- 
captains;  the  foreign  garb  and  air  of  Spanish  Creoles; 
and  the  disdainful  port  of  natives  of  Old  England  ;  all 
contrasted  with  the  rougli  aspect  of  one  or  two  back 
settlers,  negotiating  sales  of  timber,  from  forests  where 
axe  had  never  sounded.  Sometimes  a  lady  passed,  swell- 
ing roundly  forth  in  an  embroidered  petticoat,  balancing 
her  steps  in  high-heeled  shoes,  and  courtesying,  with 
lofty  grace,  to  the  punctilious  obeisances  of  the  gentle- 
men. The  life  of  the  town  seemed  to  have  its  very  centre 
not  far  from  an  old  mansion,  that  stood  somewhat  back 
from  the  pavement,  surrounded  by  neglected  grass,  with 
a  strange  air  of  loneliness,  rather  deepened  than  dispelled 
by  the  throng  so  near  it.  Its  site  would  have  been  suit- 
ably occupied  by  a  magnificent  Exchange,  or  a  brick 
block,  lettered  all  over  with  various  signs ;  or  the  large 
house  itself  might  have  made  a  noble  tavern,  with  the 
"  King's  Arms"  swinging  before  it,  and  guests  in  every 
chamber,  instead  of  the  present  solitude.  But,  owing  to 
some  dispute  about  the  right  of  inheritance,  the  mansion 
had  been  long  without  a  tenant,  decaying  from  year  to 
year,  and  throwing  the  stately  gloom  of  its  shadow  over 
the  busiest  part  of  the  town.  Such  was  the  scene,  and 
such  the  time,  when  a  figure,  unlike  any  that  have 
been  described,  was  observed  at  a  distance  down  the 
street. 

"I  espy  a  strange  sail,  yonder,"  remarked  a  Liver- 


THE    WHITE    OLD    MAID.  153 

pool  captain ;  "  that  woman  in  the  long,  white  gar- 
ment ! " 

The  sailor  seemed  much  struck  by  ths  object,  as  were 
several  others,  who,  at  the  same  moment,  caught  a, 
glimpse  of  the  figure  that  had  attracted  his  notice.  Al- 
most immediately,  the  various  topics  of  conversation  gave 
place  to  speculations,  in  an  undertone,  on  this  unwonted 
occurrence. 

"  Can  there  be  a  funeral,  so  late  this  afternoon?"  in- 
quired some. 

They  looked  for  the  signs  of  death  at  every  door,  — 
the  sexton,  the  hearse,  tli3  assemblage  of  black-clad  rela- 
tives,—  all  that  makes  up  the  woful  pomp  of  funerals. 
They  raised  their  eyes,  also,  to  the  sun-gilt  spire  of  the 
church,  and  wondered  that  no  clang  proceeded  from  its 
bell,  which  had  always  tolled  till  now,  when  this  figure 
appeared  in  the  light  of  day.  But  none  had  heard  that  a 
corps 3  was  to  be  borne  to  its  home  that  afternoon,  nor 
was  there  any  token  of  a  funeral,  except  the  apparition 
of  the  "  Old  Maid  in  the  Winding-Sheet." 

"  What  may  this  portend  ?  "  asked  each  man  of  his 
neighbor. 

All  smiled  as  they  put  the  question,  yet  with  a  certain 
trouble  in  their  eyes,  as  if  pestilence,  or  some  other  wide 
calamity,  were  prognosticated  by  the  untimely  intrusion 
.  among  the  living,  of  one  whose  presence  had  always  been 
associated  with  death  and  woe.  What  a  comet  is  to  the 
earth,  was  that  sad  woman  to  the  town.  Still  she  moved 
on,  while  the  hum  of  surprise  was  hushed  at  her  approach, 
and  the  proud  and  the  humble  stood  aside,  that  her  white 
garment  might  not  wave  against  them.  It  was  a  long, 
loose  robe,  of  spotless  purity.  Its  wearer  appeared  very 
old,  pale,  emaciated,  and  feeble,  yet  glided  onward,  with- 
out the  unsteady  pace  of  extreme  age.  At  one  point  of 
"7* 


154  TWICE-TOLD   TALES. 

her  course,  a  littly  rosy  boy  burst  forth  from  a  door,  and" 
ran,  with  open  arms,  towards  the  ghostly  woman,  seem- 
ing to  expect  a  kiss  from  her  bloodless  lips.  She  made 
a  slight  pause,  fixing  her  eye  upon  him  with  an  expres- 
sion of  no  earthly  sweetness,  so  that  the  child  shivered 
and  stood  awe-struck,  rather  than  affrighted,  while  the 
Old  Maid  passed  on.  Perhaps  her  garment  might  have 
been  polluted  even  by  an  infant's  touch ;  perhaps  her  kiss 
would  have  been  death  to  the  sweet  boy,  within  a  year. 

"She  is  but  a  shadow,"  whispered  the  superstitious. 
"  The  child  put  forth  his  arms  and  could  not  grasp  her 
robe  ! " 

The  wonder  was  increased,  when  the  Old  Maid  passed 
beneath  the  porch  of  the  deserted  mansion,  ascended  the 
moss-covered  steps,  lifted  the  iron  knocker,  and  gave 
three  raps.  The  people  could  only  conjecture,  that  some 
old  remembrance,  troubling  her  bewildered  brain,  had 
impelled  the  poor  woman  hither  to  visit  the  friends  of  her 
youth  ;  all  gone  from  their  home,  long  since  and  forever, 
unless  their  ghosts  still  haunted  it,  —  fit  company  for  the 
"  Old  Maid  in  the  Winding-Sheet."  An  elderly  man  ap- 
proached the  steps,  and  reverently  uncovering  his  gray 
locks,  essayed  to  explain  the  matter. 

"  None,  Madam,"  said  he,  "  have  dwelt  in  this  house 
these  fifteen  years  agone,  —  no,  not  since  the  death  of  old 
Colonel  Fenwicke,  whose  funeral  you  may  remember  to 
have  followed.  His  heirs  being  ill  agreed  among  them- 
selves, have  let  the  mansion-house  go  to  ruin." 

The  Old  Maid  looked  slowly  round,  with  a  slight  ges- 
ture of  one  hand,  and  a  finger  of  the  other  upon  her  lip, 
appearing  more  shadow-like  than  ever,  in  the  obscurity 
of  the  porch.  But  again  she  lifted  the  hammer,  and  gave, 
this  time,  a  single  rap.  Could  it  be  that  a  footstep  was 
now  heard,  coining  down  the  staircase  of  the  old  mansion. 


THE    WHITE    OLD    MAID.  155 

which  all  conceived  to  have  been  so  long  imtenanted  ? 
Slowly,  feebly,  yet  heavily,  like  the  pace  of  an  aged  and 
infirm  person,  the  step  approached,  more  distinct  on  every 
downward  stair,  till  it  reached  the  portal.  The  bar  fell 
on  the  inside ;  the  door  was  opened.  One  upward  glance, 
towards  the  church-spire,  whence  the  sunshine  had  just 
faded,  was  the  last  that  the  people  saw  of  the  "  Old  Maid 
in  the  Winding-Sheet." 

"  Who  undid  the  door  ?  "  asked  many. 

This  question,  owing  to  the  depth  of  shadow  beneath 
the  porch,  no  0113  could  satisfactorily  answer.  Two  or 
three  aged  men,  while  protesting  against  an  inference, 
which  might  be  drawn,  affirmed  that  the  person  within 
was  a  negro,  and  bore  a  singular  resemblance  to  old 
Ca3sar,  formerly  a  slave  in  the  house,  but  freed  by  death 
some  thirty  years  before. 

"  Her  summons  has  waked  up  a  servant  of  the  old 
family,"  said  one,  half  seriously. 

"  Let  us  wait  here,"  replied  another.  "  More  guests 
will  knock  at  the  door,  anon.  But  the  gate  of  the  grave- 
yard should  be  thrown  open !  " 

Twilight  had  overspread  the  town,  before  the  crowd 
began  to  separate,  or  the  comments  on  this  incident  were 
exhausted.  One  after  another  was  wending  his  way  home- 
ward, when  a  coach  —  no  common  spectacle  in  those  days 
—  drove  slowly  into  the  street.  It  was  an  old-fashioned 
equipage,  hanging  close  to  the  ground,  with  arms  on  the 
panels,  a  footman  behind,  and  a  grave,  corpulent  coach- 
man seated  high  in  front,  —  the  whole  giving  an  idea  of 
solemn  state  and  dignity.  There  was  something  awful, 
in  the  heavy  rumbling  of  the  wheels.  The  coach  rolled 
down  the  street,  till,  coming  to  the  gateway  of  the  de- 
serted mansion,  it  drew  up,  and  the  footman  sprang  to 
the  ground. 


156  TWICE-TOLD    TALES. 

"  Whose  grand  coach  is  this  ?  "  asked  a  very  inquisi- 
tive body. 

The  footman  made  no  reply,  but  ascended  the  steps  of 
the  old  house,  gave  three  raps  with  the  iron  hammer,  and 
returned  to  open  the  coach-door.  An  old  man  possessed 
of  the  heraldic  lore  so  common  in  that  day  examined  the 
shield  of  arms  on  the  panel. 

"  Azure,  a  lion's  head  erased,  between  three  flower-de- 
luces,"  said  he ;  then  whispered  the  name  of  the  family  to 
whom  these  bearings  belonged.  The  last  inheritor  of  its 
honors  was  recently  dead,  after  a  long  residence  amid  the 
splendor  of  the  British  court,  where  his  birth  and  wealth 
had  given  him  no  mean  station.  "  He  left  no  child,"  con- 
tinued the  herald,  "  and  these  arms,  being  in  a  lozenge, 
betoken  that  the  coach  appertains  to  his  widow." 

Further  disclosures,  perhaps,  might  have  been  made, 
had  not  the  speaker  suddenly  been  struck  dumb,  by  the 
stern  eye  of  an  ancient  lady,  who  thrust  forth  her  head 
from  the  coach,  preparing  to  descend.  As  she  emerged, 
the  people  saw  that  her  dress  was  magnificent,  and  her 
figure  dignified,  in  spite  of  age  and  infirmity,  —  a  stately 
ruin,  but  with  a  look,  at  once,  of  pride  and  wretchedness. 
Her  strong  and  rigid  features  had  an  awe  about  them, 
unlike  that  of  the  white  Old  Maid,  but  as  of  something 
evil.  She  passed  up  the  steps,  leaning  on  a  gold-headed 
cane ;  the  door  swung  open,  as  she  ascended,  —  and  the 
light  of  a  torch  glittered  on  the  embroidery  of  her  dress, 
and  gleamed  on  the  pillars  of  the  porch.  After  a  mo- 
mentary pause  —  a  glance  backwards  —  and  then  a  des- 
perate effort  —  she  went  in.  The  decipherer  of  the  coat 
of  arms  had  ventured  up  the  lowest  step,  and  shrinking 
back  immediately,  pale  and  tremulous,  affirmed  that  the 
torch  was  held  by  the  very  image  of  old  Caesar. 

"But,  such  a  hideous  grin,"  added  he,  "was  never 


THE    WHITE    OLD    MAID.  157 

seen  on  the  face  of  mortal  man,  black  or  white  !  It  will 
haunt  me  till  my  dying  day." 

Meantime,  the  coach  had  wheeled  round,  with  a  pro- 
digious clatter  on  the  pavement,  and  rumbled  up  the 
street,  disappearing  in  the  twilight,  while  the  ear  still 
tracked  its  course.  Scarcely  was  it  gone,  when  the  peo- 
ple began  to  question  whether  the  coach  and  attendants, 
the  ancient  lady,  the  spectre  of  old  Csesar,  and  the  Old 
Maid  herself,  were  not  all  a  strangely  combined  delusion, 
with  some  dark  purport  in  its  mystery.  The  whole  town 
was  astir,  so  that,  instead  of  dispersing,  the  crowd  con- 
tinually increased,  and  stood  gazing  up  at  the  windows 
of  the  mansion,  now  silvered  by  the  brightening  moon. 
The  elders,  glad  to  indulge  the  narrative  propensity  of 
age,  told  of  the  long-faded  spleildor  of  the  family,  the 
entertainments  they  had  given,  and  the  guests,  the  great- 
est of  the  land,  and  even  titled  and  noble  ones  from 
abroad,  who  had  passed  beneath  that  portal.  These 
graphic  reminiscences  seemed  to  call  up  the  ghosts  of 
those  to  whom  they  referred.  So  strong  was  the  impres- 
sion, on  some  of  the  more  imaginative  hearers,  that  two 
or  three  were  seized  with  trembling  fits,  at  one  and  the 
same  moment,  protesting  that  they  had  distinctly  heard 
three  other  raps  of  the  iron  knocker. 

"  Impossible  !  "  exclaimed  others.  "  See  !  The  moon 
shines  beneath  the  porch,  and  shows  every  part  of  it, 
except  in  the  narrow  shade  of  that  pillar.  There  is  no 
one  there  !  " 

"Did  not  the  door  open?"  whispered  one  of  these 
fanciful  persons. 

"  Didst  thou  see  it,  too  ?  "  said  his  companion,  in  a 
startled  tone. 

But  the  general  sentiment  was  opposed  to  the  idea, 
that  a  third  visitant  had  made  application  at  the  door 


158  TWICE-TOLD   TALES. 

of  the  deserted  house.  A  few,  however,  adhered  to  this 
new  marvel,  and  even  declared  that  a  red  gleam,  like 
that  of  a  torch,  had  shone  through  the  great  front 
window,  as  if  the  negro  were  lighting  a  guest  up  the 
staircase.  This,  too,  was  pronounced  a  mere  fantasy. 
But,  at  once,  the  whole  multitude  started,  arid  each  man 
beheld  his  own  terror  painted  in  the  faces  of  all  the  rest. 

"  What  an  awful  thing  is  this !  "  cried  they. 

A  shriek,  too  fearfully  distinct  for  doubt,  had  been 
heard  within  the  mansion,  breaking  forth  suddenly, 
and  succeeded  by  a  deep  stillness,  as  if  a  heart  had 
burst  in  giving  it  utterance.  The  people  knew  not 
whether  to  fly  from  the  very  sight  of  the  house,  or 
to  rush  trembling  in,  and  search  out  the  strange  mys- 
tery. Amid  their  confusion  and  affright,  they  were 
somewhat  reassured  by  the  appearance  of  their  cler- 
gyman, a  venerable  patriarch,  and  equally  a  saint, 
Avho  had  taught  them  and  their  fathers  the  way  to 
hoaven,  for  more  than  the  space  of  an  ordinary  life- 
time. He  Avas  a  reverend  figure,  with  long,  white 
hair  upon  his  shoulders,  a  white  beard  upon  his  breast, 
and  a  back  so  bent  over  his  staff,  that  he  seemed  to 
be  looking  downward,  continually,  as  if  to  choose  a 
proper  grave  for  his  weary  frame.  It  was  some  time 
before  the  good  old  man,  being  deaf,  and  of  impaired 
intellect,  could  be  made  to .  comprehend  such  portions 
of  the  affair  as  were  comprehensible  at  all.  But,  when 
possessed  of  the  facts,  his  energies  assumed  unexpected 
vigor.^ 

"  Verily,"  said  the  old  gentleman,  "  it  will  be  fitting 
that  I  enter  the  mansion-house  of  the  worthy  Colonel 
Fenwicke,  lest  any  harm  should  have  befallen  that 
true  Christian  woman,  whom  ye  call  tlie  '(Xd  Maid  in 
the  Winding-Sheet.' " 


THE    WHITE    OLD    MAID.  159 

Behold,  then,  the  venerable  clergyman  ascending  the 
steps  of  the  mansion,  with  a  torch-bearer  behind  him. 
It  was  the  elderly  man,  who  had  spoken  to  the  Old  Maid, 
and  the  same  who  had  afterwards  explained  the  shield 
of  arms,  and  recognized  the  features  of  the  negro.  Like 
their  predecessors,  they  gave  three  raps,  with  the  iron 
hammer.  • 

"  Old  Csesar  cometh  not,"  observed  the  priest.  "  Well, 
I  \vot,  Ii3  no  longjr  doth  service  in  tins  mansion." 

"Assuredly,  then,  it  was  something  worse,  in  old 
Caesar's  likeness  !  "  said  the  other  adventurer. 

"  Be  it  as  God  wills,"  answered  the  clergyman.  "  See  ! 
my  strength,  though  it  be  much  decayed,  hath  sufficed 
to  open  this  heavy  door.  Let  us  enter,  and  pass  up  the 
staircase." 

Here  occurred  a  singular  exemplification  of  the  dreamy 
state  of  a  very  old  man's  mind.  As  they  ascended  the 
wide  flight  of  stairs,  the  aged  clergyman  appeared  to 
move  with  caution,  occasionally  standing  aside,  and  of- 
tener  bending  his  head,  as  it  were  in  salutation,  thus 
practising  all  the  gestures  of  one  who  makes  his  way 
through  a  throng.  Reaching  the  head  of  the  staircase, 
he  looked  around,  with  sad  and  solemn  benignity,  laid 
aside  his  staff,  bared  his  hoary  locks,  and  was  evidently 
on  the  point  of  commencing  a  prayer. 

"  Reverend  Sir,"  said  his  attendant,  who  conceived 
this  a  very  suitable  prelude  to  their  further  search, 
"  would  it  not  be  well,  that  the  people  join  with  us  in 
prayer  ?  " 

"  Well-a-day  ! "  cried  the  old  clergyman,  staring 
strangely  around  him.  "  Art  thou  here  with  me,  and 
none  other  ?  Verily,  past  times  were  present  to  me, 
and  I  deemed  that  I  was  to  make  a  funeral  prayer,  as 
many  a  time  heretofore,  from  the  head  of  this  staircusa. 


160  TWICE-TOLD    TALES. 

Of  a  truth,  I  saw  the  shades  of  many  that  are  gone. 
Yea,  I  have  prayed  at  their  burials,  one  after  another, 
and  the  '  Old  Maid  in  the  Winding-Sheet '  hath  seen 
them  to  their  graves  !  " 

Being  now  more  thoroughly  awake  to  their  present 
purpose,  he  took  his  staff,  and  struck  forcibly  on  the 
floor,  till  there  came  an  echo  from  each  deserted  cham- 
ber, but  no  menial,  to  answer  their  summons.  They 
therefore  walked  along  the  passage,  and  again  paused, 
opposite  to  the  great  front  window,  through  which  was 
seen  the  crowd,  in  the  shadow  and  partial  moonlight  of 
the  street  beneath.  On  their  right  hand  was  the  open 
door  of  a  chamber,  and  a  closed  one  on  their  left.  The 
clergyman  pointed  his  cane  to  the  carved  oak  panel  of  the 
latter. 

"  Within  that  chamber,"  observed  he,  "  a  whole  life- 
time since,  did  I  sit  by  the  death -bed  of  a  goodly  young 
man,  who,  being  now  at  the  last  gasp  —  " 

Apparently,  there  was  some  powerful  excitement  in 
the  ideas  which  had  now  flashed  across  his  mind.  He 
snatched  the  torch  from  his  companion's  hand,  and 
threw  open  the  door  with  such  sudden  violence,  that  the 
flame  was  extinguished,  leaving  them  no  other  light 
than  the  moonbeams,  which  fell  through  two  windows 
into  the  spacious  chamber.  It  was  sufficient  to  dis- 
cover all  that  could  be  known.  In  a  high-backed  oaken 
arm-chair,  upright,  with  her  hands  clasped  across  her 
breast,  and  her  head  thrown  back,  sat  the  "Old  Maid 
in  the  Winding-Sheet."  The  stately  dame  had  fallen  on 
her  knees,  with  her  forehead  on  the  holy  knees  of  the 
Old  Maid,  one  hand  upon  the  floor,  and  the  other  pressed 
convulsively  against  her  heart.  It  clutched  a  lock  of 
hair,  once  sable,  now  discolored  with  a  greenish  mould. 
•  As  the  priest  and  layman  advanced  into  the  chamber,  the 


THE   WHITE    OLD   MAID. 


161 


Old  Maid's  features  assumed  such  a  resemblance  of 
shifting  expression,  that  they  trusted  to  hear  the  whole 
mystery  explained,  by  a  single  word.  But  it  was  only 
the  shadow  of  a  tattered  curtain,  waving  betwixt  the  dead 
face  and  the  moonlight. 

"  Both  dead  !  "  said  the  venerable  man.  "  Then  who 
shall  divulge  the  secret  ?  Methiuks  it  glimmers  to  and 
fro  in  my  mind,  like  the  light  and  shadow  across  the  Old 
Maid's  face.  And  now  't  is  gone  !  " 


PETER   GOLDTHWAITE'S  TREASURE. 

CD  so,  Peter,  you  won't  even  consider  of  the 
business?"  said  Mr.  John  Brown,  buttoning 
his  surtout  over  the  snug  rotundity  of  his  per- 
son, and  drawing  on  his  gloves.  "  You  positively  refuse 
to  let  me  have  this  crazy  old  house,  and  the  land  under 
and  adjoining,  at  the  price  named  ?  " 

"  Neither  at  that,  nor  treble  the  sum,"  responded 
the  gaunt,  grizzled,  and  threadbare  Peter  Goldthwaite. 
"The  fact  is,  Mr.  Brown,  you  must  find  another  site 
for  your  brick  block,  and  be  content  to  leave  my  estate 
with  the  present  owner.  Next  summer,  I  intend  to* 
put  a  splendid  new  mansion  over  the  cellar  of  the  old 
house." 

"  Pho,  Peter !  "  cried  Mr.  Brown,  as  he  opened  the 
kitchen-door ;  "  content  yourself  with  building  castles  in 
the  air,  where  house-lots  are  cheaper  than  on  earth,  to 
say  nothing  of  the  cost  of  bricks  and  mortar.  Such 
foundations  are  solid  enough  for  your  edifices ;  while  this 
underneath  us  is  just  the  thing  for  mine  ;  and  so  we  may 
both  be  suited.  What  say  you,  again  ?  " 

"  Precisely  what  I  said  before,  Mr.  Brown,"  answered 
Peter  Goldthwaite.  "  And,  as  for  castles  in  the  air, 
mine  may  not  be  as  magnificent  as  that  sort  of  architec- 
ture, but  perhaps  as  substantial,  Mr.  Brown,  as  the  very 


PETER    COLDTIIWAITE'S    TREASURE.         163 

rsspec.able  brick  block  with  dry -goods  stores,  tailors' 
shops,  and  banking-rooms  on  the  lower  floor,  and  law- 
yers' offices  in  the  second  story,  which  you  are  so  anxious 
•tj  substitute." 

"And  the  cost,  Peler,  eh?"  said  Mr.  Brown,  as  he 
withdrew,  hi  something  of  a  pet.  "  That,  I  suppose,  will 
be  provided  for,  offhand,  by  drawing  a  check  on  Bubble 
Bank  !  " 

John  Brown  and  Peter  Goldthwaite  had  been  jointly 
known  to  the  commercial  world  between  twenty  and 
thirty  years  before,  under  the  firm  of  Goldthwaite  & 
Brown  ;  which  copartnership,  however,  was  speedily  dis- 
solved, by  the  natural  incongruity  of  its  constituent  parts. 
Since  that  event,  John  Brown,  with  exactly  the  qualities 
of  a  thousand  other  John  Browns,  and  by  just  such  plod- 
ding methods  as  they  used,  had  prospered  wonderfully, 
and  become  one  of  the  wealthiest  John  Browns  on  earth. 
Peter  Goldthwaite,  on  the  contrary,  after  innumerable 
schemes,  which  ought  to  have  collected  all  the  coin  and 
paper  currency  of  the  country  into  his  coffers,  was  as  needy 
a  gentleman  as  ever  wore  a  patch  upon  his'  elbow.  The 
contrast  between  him  and  his  former  partner  may  be  briefly 
marked,  for  Brown  never  reckoned  upon  luck,  yet  always 
had  it ;  while  Peter  made  luck  the  main  condition  of  his 
projects,  and  always  missed  it.  While  the  means  held  out 
his  speculations  had  been  magnificent,  but  were  chiefly 
confined,  of  late  years,  to  such  small  business  as  adven- 
tures in  the  lottery.  Once,  he  had  gone  on  a  gold-gather- 
ing expedition,  somewhere  to  the  South,  and  ingeniously 
contrived  to  empty  his  pockets  more  thoroughly  than 
ever;  while  others,  doubtless,  were  filling  theirs  with 
native  bullion  by  the  handful.  More  recently  he  had 
expended  a  legacy  of  a  thousand  or  two  of  dollars  in 
purchasing  Mexican  scrip,  and  thereby  became  the  pro- 


164  TWICE-TOLD    TALES. 

prietor  of  a  province;  which,  however,  so  far  as  Peter 
could  find  out,  was  situated  where  he  might  have  had  an 
empire  for  the  same  money,  —  in  the  clouds.  From  a 
search  after  this  valuable  real  estate,  Peter  returned  so 
gaunt  and  threadbare,  that,  on  reaching  New  England, 
the  scarecrows  in  the  cornfields  beckoned  to  him,  as  he 
passed  by.  "They  did  but  nutter  in  the  wind,"  quoth 
Peter  Goldthwaite.  No,  Peter,  they  beckoned,  for  the 
-  scarecrows  knew  their  brother ! 

At  the  period  of  our  story,  his  whole  visible  income 
would  not  have  paid  the  tax  of  the  old  mansion  in  which 
we  find  him.  It  was  one  of  those  rusty,  moss-grown, 
many -peaked  wooden  Louses,  which  are  scattered  about 
the  streets  of  our  elder  towns,  with  a  beetle-browed 
second  story  projecting  over  the  foundation,  as  if  it 
frowned  at  the  novelty  around  it.  This  old  paternal  ed- 
ifice, needy  as  he  was,  and  though,  being  cent  rally  situated 
on  the  principal  street  of  the  town,  it  would  have  brought 
him  a  handsome  sum,  the  sagacious  Peter  had  his  own 
reasons  for  never  parting  with,  either  by  auction  or  pri- 
vate sale.  There  seemed,  indeed,  to  be  a  fatality  that 
connected  him  with  his  birthplace ;  for,  often  as  he  had 
stood  on  the  verge  of  ruin,  and  standing  there  even  now, 
he  had  not  yet  taken  the  step  beyond  it,  which  would  have 
compelled  him  to  surrender  the  house  to  his  creditors. 
So  here  he  dwelt  with  bad  luck  till  good  should  come. 

Here,  then,  in  his  kitchen,  the  only  room  where  a 
spark  of  fire  took  off  the  chill  of  a  November  evening, 
poor  Peter  Goldthwaite  had  just  been  visited  by  his  rich 
old  partner.  At  the  close  of  their  interview,  Peter,  with 
rather  a  mortified  look,  glanced  downwards  at  his  dress, 
parts  of  which  appeared  as  ancient  as  the  days  of  Gold- 
Ihwaite  &  Brown.  His  upper  garment  was  a  mixed  sur- 
tout,  wofully  faded,  and  patched  with  newer  stuff  on 


PETER    GOLDTHWAITE'S    TREASURE.         165 

eacli  elbow ;  beneath  this,  he  wore  a  threadbare  black 
coat,  some  of  the  silk  buttons  of  which  had  been  replaced 
with  others  of  a  different  pattern  ;  and  lastly,  though  he 
lacked  not  a  pair  of  gray  pantaloons,  they  were  very 
shabby  ones,  and  had  been  partially  turned  brown,  by 
the  frequent  toasting  of  Peter's  shins  before  a  scanty  fire. 
Peter's  person  was  in  keeping  with  his  goodly  apparel. 
Gray-headed,  hollow-eyed,  pale-cheeked,  and  lean-bodied, 
he  was  the  perfect  picture  of  a  man  who  had  fed  on  windy 
schemes  and  empty  hopes  till  he  could  neither  live  on 
such  unwholesome  trash  nor  stomach  more  substantial 
food.  But,  withal,  this  Peter  Goldthwaite,  crackbrained 
simpleton  as,  perhaps,  he  was,  might  have  cut  a  very 
brilliant  figure  in  the  world,  had  he  employed  his  imagi- 
nation in  the  airy  business  of  poetry,  instead  of  making 
it  a  demon  of  mischief  in  mercantile  pursuits.  After  all, 
he  was  no  bad  fellow,  but  as  harmless  as  a  child  and  as 
honest  and  honorable,  and  as  much  of  the  gentleman 
which  nature  meant  him  for,  as  an  irregular  life  and  de- 
pressed circumstances  will  permit  any  man  to  be. 

As  Peter  stood  on  the  uneven  bricks  of  his  hearth, 
looking  round  at  the  disconsolate  old  kitchen,  his  eyes 
began  to  kindle  with  the  illumination  of  an  enthusiasm 
that  never  long  deserted  him.  He  raised  his  hand, 
clinched  it,  and  smote  it  energetically  against  the  smoky 
panel  over  the  fireplace. 

"The  time  is  come  !  "  said  he.  "With  such  a  treas- 
ure at  command,  it  were  folly  to  be  a  poor  man  any 
longer.  To-morrow  morning  I  will  begin  with  the  gar- 
ret, nor  desist  till  I  have  torn  the  house  down  !  " 

Deep  in  the  chimney-corner,  like  a  witch  in  a  dark 
cavern,  sat  a  little  old  woman,  mending  one  of  the  two 
pairs  of  stockings  wherewith  Peter  Goldthwaite  kept  his 
toes  from  being  frost-bitten.  As  the  feet  were  ragged 


166  TWICE-TOLD    TALES. 

past  all  darning,  she  had  cut  pieces  out  of  a  cast-off  flan- 
nel petticoat,  to  make  new  soles.  Tabitha  Porter  was 
an  old  maid,  upwards  of  sixty  years  of  age,  fifty-five  of 
which  she  had  sat  in  that  same  chimney-corner,  such 
being  the  length  of  time  since  Peter's  grandfather  had 
taken  her  from  the  almshouse.  She  had  no  friend  but 
Peter,  nor  Peter  any  friend  but  Tabitha;  so  long  as 
Peter  might  have  a  shelter  for  his  own  head,  Tabitha 
would  know  where  to  shelter  hers ;  or,  being  homeless 
elsewhere,  she  would  take  her  master  by  the  hand,  and 
bring  him  to  her  native  home,  the  almshouse.  Should  it 
ever  be  necessary,  she  loved  him  well  enough  to  feed  him 
with  her  last  morsel,  and  clothe  him  with  her  under- 
petticoat.  But  Tabitha  was  a  queer  old  woman,  and, 
though  never  infected  with  Peter's  flightiness,  had  be- 
come so  accustomed  to  his  freaks  and  follies,  that  she 
yiewed  them  all  as  matters  of  course.  Hearing  him 
threaten  to  tear  the  house  down,  she  looked  quietly  up 
from  her  work. 

"  Best  leave  the  kitchen  till  the  last,  Mr.  Peter,"  said 
she. 

"The  sooner  we  have  it  all  down  the  better,"  said 
Peter  Goldthwaite.  "  I  am  tired  to  death  of  living  in 
this  cold,  dark,  windy,  smoky,  creaking,  groaning, 
dismal  old  house.  I  shall  feel  like  a  younger  man, 
when  we  -  get  into  my  splendid  brick  mansion,  as, 
please  Heaven,  we  shall,  by  this  time  next  autumn. 
You  shall  have  a  room  on  the  sunny  side,  old  Tabby, 
finished  and  furnished  as  best  may  suit  your  own  no- 
tions." 

"I  should  like  it  pretty  much  such  a  room  as  this 
kitchen,"  answered  Tabitha.  "  It  will  never  be  like 
home  to  me,  till  the  chimney-corner  gets  as  black  with 
smoke  as  this;  and  that  won't  be  these  hundred  years. 


PETER    GOLDTHWAITE'S    TREASURE.         167 

How  much  do  you  mean  to  lay  out  oil  the  house,  Mr. 
Peter  ?  " 

"  What  is  that  to  the  purpose  ?  "  exclaimed  Peter, 
loftily.  "  Did  not  my  great -grand-uncle,  Peter  Gold- 
thwaite,  who  died  seventy  years  ago,  and  whose  name- 
sake I  am,  leave  treasure  enough  to  build  twenty 
such  ?  " 

"I  can't  say  but  he  did,  Mr.  Peter,"  said  Tabitha, 
threading  her  needle. 

Tabitha  well  understood  that  Peter  had  reference 
to  an  immense  hoard  of  the  precious  metals,  which 
was  said  to  exist  somewhere  in  the  cellar  or  walls,  or 
under  the  floors,  or  in  some  concealed  closet,  or  other 
out-of-the-way  nook  of  the  house.  This  wealth,  accord- 
ing to  tradition,  had  been  accumulated  by  a  former 
Peter  Goldthwaite,  whose  character  seems  to  have  borne 
a  remarkable  similitude  to  that  of  the  Peter  of  our  story. 
Like  him,  he  was  a  wild  projector,  seeking  to  heap  up 
gold  byfc  the  bushel  and  the  cartload,  instead  of  scraping 
it  together,  coin  by  coin.  Like  Peter  the  second,  too, 
his  projects  had  almost  invariably  failed,  and,  but  for  the 
magnificent  success  of  the  final  one,  would  have  left  him 
with  hardly  a  coat  and  pair  of  breeches  to  his  gaunt  and 
grizzled  person.  Reports  were  various  as  to  the  nature 
of  his  fortunate  speculation ;  one  intimating  that  the 
ancient  Peter  had  made  the  gold  by  alchemy ;  another, 
that  he  had  conjured  it  out  of  people's  pockets  by  the 
black  art ;  and  a  third,  still  more  unaccountable,  that  the 
Devil  had  given  him  free  access  to  the  old  provincial 
treasury.  It  was  affirmed,  however,  that  some  secret 
impediment  had  debarred  him  from  the  enjoyment  of  his 
riches,  and  that  he  had  a  motive  for  concealing  them 
from  his  heir,  or,  at  any  rate,  had  died  without  disclos- 
ing the  place  of 'deposit.  The  present  Peter's  father  had 


168  TWICE-TOLD    TALES. 

faith  enough  in  the  story  to  cause  the  cellar  to  be  dug 
over.  Peter  himself  chose  to  consider  the  legend  as  an 
indisputable  truth,  and,  amid,  his  many  troubles,  had 
this  one  consolation,  that,  should  all  other  resources  fail, 
he  might  build  up  his  fortunes  by  tearing  his  house 
down.  Yet,  unless  he  felt  a  lurking  distrust  of  the  golden 
tale,  it  is  difficult  to  account  for  his  permitting  the  paternal 
roof  to  stand  so  long,  since  he  had  never  yet  seen  the 
moment  when  his  predecessor's  treasure  would  not  have 
found  plenty  of  room  in  his  own  strong-box.  But,  now 
was  the  crisis.  Should  he  delay  the  search  a  little  longer, 
the  house  would  pass  from  the  lineal  heir,  and  with  it 
the  vast  heap  of  gold,  to  remain  in  its  burial-place,  till 
the  ruin  of  the  aged  walls  should  discover  it  to  strangers 
of  a  future  generation. 

"  Yes  !  "  cried  Peter  Goldthwaite,  again ;  "  to-morrow 
I  will  set  about  it." 

The  deeper  he  looked  at  the  matter,  the  more  certain 
of  success  grew  Peter.  His  spirits  were  naturally  so 
elastic,  that  even  now,  in  the  blasted  autumn  of  his  age, 
he  could  often  compete  with  the  spring-time  gayety  of 
other  people.  Enlivened  by  his  brightening  prospects, 
he  began  to  caper  about  the  kitchen  like  a  hobgoblin, 
with  the  queerest  antics  of  his  lean  limbs,  and  gesticula- 
tions of  his  starved  features.  Nay,  in  the  exuberance  of 
his  feelings,  he  seized  both  of  Tabitha's  hands,  and  danced 
the  old  lady  across  the  floor,  till  the  oddity  of  her  rheu- 
matic motions  set  him  into  a  roar  of  laughter,  which  was 
echoed  back  from  the  rooms  and  chambers,  as  if  Peter 
Goldthwaite  were  laughing  in  every  one.  Finally,  he 
bounded  upward,  almost  out  of  sight,  into  the  smoke 
that  clouded  the  roof  of  the  kitchen,  and  alighting  safely 
on  the  floor  again,  endeavored  to  resume  his  customary 
gravity. 


PETER    GOLDTHWAITE'S    TREASURE.         169 

"  To-morrow,  at  sunrise,"  he  repeated,  taking  his  lamp, 
to  retire  to  bed,  "  I  '11  see  whether  this  treasure  be  hid  in 
the  wall  of  the  garret." 

"  And,  as  we  're  out  of  wood,  Mr.  Peter,"  said  Tabitha, 
puffing  and  panting  with  her  late  gymnastics,  "  as  fast 
as  you  tear  the  house  down,  I  '11  make  a  fire  with  the 
pieces." 

Gorgeous,  that  night,  were  the  dreams  of  Peter  Gold- 
thwaite !  At  one  time  he  was  turning  a  ponderous  key 
in  an  iron  door,  not  unlike  the  door  of  a  sepulchre,  but 
which,  being  opened,  disclosed  a  vault,  heaped  up  with 
gold  coin,  as  plentifully  as  golden  corn  in  a  granary. 
There  were  chased  goblets,  also,  and  tureens,  salvers, 
dinner-dishes,  and  dish-covers,  of  gold,  or  silver-gilt, 
besides  chains  and  other  jewels  incalculably  rich,  though 
tarnished  with  the  damps  of  the  vault ;  for,  of  all  the 
wealth  that  was  irrevocably  lost  to  man,  whether  buried 
in  the  earth,  or  sunken  in  the  sea,  Peter  Goldtlnvaite 
had  found  it  in  this  one  treasure-place.  Anon,  he  had 
returned  to  the  old  house,  as  poor  as  ever,  and  was 
received  at  the  door,  by  the  gaunt  and  grizzled  figure  of 
a  man,  whom  he  might  have  mistaken  for  himself,  only 
that  his  garments  were  of  a  much  elder  fashion.  But 
the  house,  without  losing  its  former  aspect,  had  been 
changed  into  a  palace  of  the  precious  metals.  The  floors, 
walls,  and  ceilings  were  of  burnished  silver ;  the  doors, 
the  window-frames,  the  cornices,  the  balustrades,  and  the 
steps  of  the  staircase,  of  pure  gold ;  and  silver,  with  gold 
bottoms,  were  the  chairs,  and  gold,  standing  on  silver 
legs,  the  high  chests  of  drawers,  and  silver  the  bedsteads, 
with  blankets  of  woven  gold,  and  sheets  of  silver  tissue. 
The  house  had  evidently  been  transmuted  by  a  single 
touch ;  for  it  retained  all  the  marks  that  Peter  remem- 
bered, but  in  gold  or  silver,  instead  of  wood ;  and  the 

VOL.  II.  8 


170  TWICE-TOLD    TALES. 

initials  of  his  name,  "which,  when  a  boy,  he  had  cut  in 
the  wooden  doorpost,  remained  as  deep  in  the  pillar  of 
gold.  A  happy  man  would  have  been  Peter  Goldthwaite, 
except  for  a  certain  ocular  deception,  which,  whenever 
he  glanced  backward,  caused  the  house  to  darken  from 
its  glittering  magnificence  into  the  sordid  gloom  of  yes- 
terday. 

Up,  betimes,  rose  Peter,  seized  an  axe,  hammer,  and 
saw,  which  he  had  placed  by  his  bedside,  and  hied  him 
to  the  garret.  It  was  but  scantily  lighted  up,  as  yet,  by 
the  frosty  fragments  of  a  sunbeam,  which  began  to  glim- 
mer through  the  almost  opaque  bull's  eyes  of  the  window. 
A  moralizer  might  find  abundant  themes  for  his  specula- 
tive and  impracticable  wisdom  in  a  garret.  There  is  the 
limbo  of  departed  fashions,  aged  trifles  of  a  day,  and 
whatever  was  valuable  only  to  one  generation  of  men, 
and  which  passed  to  the  garret  when  that  generation 
passed  to  the  grave,  not  for  safe-keeping,  but  to  be  out 
of  the  way.  Peter  saw  piles  of  yellow  and  musty 
account -books,  in  parchment  covers,  wherein  creditors, 
long  dead  and  buried,  had  written  the  names  of  dead 
and  buried  debtors,  in  ink  now  so  faded,  that  their  moss- 
grown  tombstones  were  more  legible.  He  found  old 
moth-eaten  garments  all  in  rags  and  tatters,  or  Peter 
would  have  put  them  on.  Here  was  a  naked  and  rusty 
sword,  not  a  sword  of  service,  but  a  gentleman's  small 
Trench  rapier,  which  had  never  left  its  scabbard  till  it 
lost  it.  Here  were  canes  of  twenty  different  sorts,  but 
no  gold-headed  ones,  and  shoe-buckles  of  various  pattern 
and  material,  but  not  silver,  nor  set  with  precious  stones.- 
Here  was  a  large  box  full  of  shoes,  with  high  heels  and 
peaked  toes.  Here,  on  a  shelf,  were  a  multitude  of 
phials,  half  filled  with  old  apothecaries'  stuff,  which, 
when  the  other  half  had  done  its  business  on  Peter's 


PETER    GOLDTHWAITE'S    TREASURE.         171 

ancestors,  had  been  brought  hither  from  the  death-cham- 
bar.  Here  —  not  to  give  a  longer  inventory  of  articles 
that  will  never  be  put  up  at  auction  —  was  the  fragment 
of  a  full-length  looking-glass,  which,  by  the  dust  and 
dimness  of  its  surface,  made  the  picture  of  these  old 
things  look  older  than  the  reality.  When  Peter,  not 
knowing  that  there  was  a  mirror  there,  caught  the  faint 
traces  of  his  own  figure,  he  partly  imagined  that  the 
former  Peter  Goldthwaite  had  come  back,  either  to  assist 
or  impede  his  search  for  the  hidden  wealth.  And  at  that 
moment  a  strange  notion  glimmered  through  his  brain, 
that  he  was  the  identical  Peter  who  had  concealed  the 
gold,  and  ought  to  know  whereabout  it  lay.  This,  how- 
ever, he  had  unaccountably  forgotten. 

"  Well,  Mr.  Peter  !  "  cried  Tabitha,  on  the  garret  stairs. 
"  Have  you  torn  the  house  down  enough  to  heat  the  tea- 
kettle ?  " 

"Not  yet,  old  Tabby,"  answered  Peter;  "but  that's 
soon  done,  as  you  shall  see." 

With  the  word  in  his  mouth,  he  uplifted  the  axe,  and 
laid  about  him  so"  vigorously,  that  the  dust  flew,  the 
boards  crashed,  and,  in  a  twinkling,  the  old  woman  had 
an  apronful  of  broken  rubbish. 

"We  shall  get  our  winter's  wood  cheap,"  quoth 
Tabitha. 

The  good  work  being  thus  commenced,  Peter  beat 
down  all  before  him,  smiting  and  hewing  at  the  joists 
and  timbers,  uncliuching  spike-nails,  ripping  and  tearing 
away  boards,  with  a  tremendous  racket,  from  morning 
till  niglLt.  He  took  care,  however,  to  leave  the  outside 
shell  of  the  house  untouched,  so  that  the  neighbors  might 
not  suspect  what  was  going  on. 

Never,  in  any  of  his  vagaries,  though  each  had  made 
him  happy  while  it  lasted,  had  Peter  been  happier  than 


172  TWICE-TOLD   TALES. 

now.  Perhaps,  after  all,  there  was  something  in  Peter 
Goldthwaite's  turn  of  mind,  which  brought  him  an  inward 
recompense  for  all  the  external  evil  that  it  caused.  If 
he  were  poor,  ill-clad,  even  hungry,  and  exposed,  as  it 
were,  to  be  utterly  annihilated  by  a  precipice  of  impend- 
ing ruin,  yet  only  his  body  remained  in  these  miserable 
circumstances,  while  his  aspiring  soul  enjoyed  the  sun- 
shine of  a  bright  futurity.  It  was  his  nature  to  be  always 
young,  and  the  tendency  of  his  mode  of  life  to  keep  him 
so.  Gray  hairs  were  nothing,  no,  nor  wrinkles,  nor  in- 
firmity ;  he  might  look  old,  indeed,  and  be  somewhat  disa- 
greeably connected  with  a  gaunt  old  figure,  much  the  worse 
for  wear ;  but  the  true,  the  essential  Peter  was  a  young 
man  of  high  hopes,  just  entering  on  the  world.  At  the 
kindling  of  each  new  fire,  his  burnt-out  youth  rose  afresh 
from  the  old  embers  and  ashes.  It  rose  exulting  now. 
Having  lived  thus  long  —  not  too  long,  but  just  to  the 
right  age  —  a  susceptible  bachelor,  with  warm  and  tender 
dreams,  he  resolved,  as  soon  as  the  hidden  gold  should 
flash  to  light,  to  go  a-wooing,  and  win  the  love  of  the 
fairest  maid  in  town.  What  heart'  could  resist  him  ? 
Happy  Peter  Goldthwaite ! 

Every  evening  —  as  Peter  had  long  absented  himself 
from  his  former  lounging-places,  at  insurance-offices, 
news-rooms,  and  bookstores,  and  as  the  honor  of  his 
company  was  seldom  requested  in  private  circles  —  he 
and  Tabitha  used  to  sit  down  sociably  by  the  kitchen 
hearth.  This  was  always  heaped  plentifully  with  the 
rubbish  of  his  day's  labor.  As  the  foundation  of  the 
fire,  there  would  be  a  goodly  sized  backlog  of  red-oak, 
which,  after  being  sheltered  from  rain  or  damp  above  a 
century,  still  hissed  with  the  heat,  and  distilled  streams 
of  water  from  each  end,  as  if  the  tree  had  been  cut  down 
within  a  week  or  two.  Next,  there  were  large  sticks, 


PETER    GOLDTHWAITE'S    TREASURE.         173 

sound,  black,  and  heavy,  which  had  lost  the  principle  of 
decay,  and  were  indestructible  except  by  fire,  wherein 
they  glowed  like  red-hot  bars  of  iron.  On  this  solid 
basis,  Tabitha  would  rear  a  lighter  structure,  composed 
of  the  splinters  of  door-panels,  ornamented  mouldings, 
and  such  quick  combustibles,  which  caught  like  straw, 
and  threw  a  brilliant  blaze  high  up  the  spacious  flue, 
making  its  sooty  sides  visible  almost  to  the  chimney- 
top.  Meantime,  the  gleam  of  the  old  kitchen  would  be 
chased  out  of  the  cobwebbed  corners,  and  away  from  the 
dusky  crossbeams  overhead,  and  driven  nobody  could 
tell  whither,  while  Peter  smiled  like  a  gladsome  man,  and 
Tabitha  seemed  a  picture  of  comfortable  age.  All  this, 
of  course,  was  but  an  emblem  of  the  bright  fortune  which 
the  destruction  of  the  house  would  shed  upon  its  occu- 
pants. 

While  the  dry  pine  was  naming  and  crackling,  like  an 
irregular  discharge  of  fairy  musketry,  Peter  sat  looking 
and  listening,  in  a  pleasant  state  of  excitement.  But, 
when  the  brief  blaze  and  uproar  were  succeeded  by  the 
dark-red  glow,  the  substantial  heat,  and  the  deep  singing 
sound,  which  were  to  last  throughout  the  evening,  his 
humor  became  talkative.  One  night,  the  hundredth 
time,  he  teased  Tabitha  to  tell  him  something  new  about 
his  great-grand-uncle. 

"  You  have  been  sitting  in  that  chimney-corner  fifty- 
five  years,  old  Tabby,  and  must  have  heard  many  a  tra- 
dition about  him,"  said  Peter.  "  Did  not  you  tell  me, 
that,  when  you  first  came  to  the  house,  there  was  an 
old  woman  sitting  where  you  sit  now,  who  had  been 
housekeeper  to  the  famous  Peter  Goldthwaite  ?  " 

"  So  there  was,  Mr.  Peter,"  answered  Tabitha  ;  "  and 
she  was  near  about  a  hundred  years  old.  She  used  to 
say  that  she  and  old  Peter  Goldthwaite  had  often  spent 


174  TWICE-TOLD   TALES. 

a  sociable  evening  by  the  kitchen  fire,  — pretty  much  as 
you  and  I  are  doing  now,  Mr.  Peter." 

"The  old  fellow  must  have  resembled  me  in  more 
points  than  one,"  said  Peter,  complacently,  "  or  he  never 
would  have  grown  so  rich.  But,  methinks,  he  might 
have  invested  the  money  better  than  he  did,  —  no  in- 
terest !  —  nothing  but  good  security  !  —  and  the  house 
-.to  be  torn  down  to  come  at  it!  What  made  him  hide 
it  so  snug,  Tabby  ?  " 

"  Because  he  could  not  spend  it,"  said  Tabitha ;  "  for, 
as  often  as  he  went  to  unlock  the  chest,  the  Old  Scratch 
came  behind  and  caught  his  arm.  The  money,  they  say, 
was  paid  Peter  out  of  his  purse  ;  and  he  wanted  Peter 
to  give  him  a  deed  of  this  house  and  land,  which  Peter 
swore  he  would  not  do." 

"  Just  as  I  swore  to  John  Brown,  my  old  partner," 
remarked  Peter.  "But  this  is  all  nonsense,  Tabby!  I 
don't  believe  the  story." 

"Well,  it  may  not  be  just  the  truth,"  said  Tabitha; 
"  for  some  folks  say,  that  Peter  did  make  over  the  house 
to  the  Old  Scratch  ;  and  that 's  the  reason  it  has  always 
been  so  unlucky  to  them  that  lived  in  it.  And  as  soon 
as  Peter  had  given  him  the  deed,  the  chest  flew  open, 
and  Peter  caught  up  a  handful  of  the  gold.  But,  lo  and 
behold  !  —  there  was  nothing  in  his  fist  but  a  parcel  of 
old  rags." 

"  Hold  your  tongue,  you  silly  old  Tabby ! "  cried 
Peter,  in  great  wrath.  "They  were  as  good  golden 
guineas  as  ever  bore  the  effigies  of  the  king  of  Eng- 
land. It-  seems  as  if  I  could  recollect  the  whole  cir- 
cumstance, and  how  I,  or  old  Peter,  or  whoever  it  was, 
thrust  in  my  hand,  or  his  hand,  and  drew  it  out,  all  of 
a  blaze  with  gold.  Old  rags,  indeed  !  " 

But  it  was  not  an  old  woman's  legend  that  would  dis- 


PETER    GOLDTHWAITE'S    TREASURE.         175 

courage  Peter  Goldtliwaite.  All  night  long,  lie  slept 
among  pleasant  dreams,  and  awoke  at  daylight  with  a 
joyous  throb  of  the  heart,  which  few  are  fortunate 
enough  to  feel  beyond  their  boyhood.  Day  after  day, 
he  labored  hard,  without  wasting  a  moment,  except  at 
meal-times,  when  Tabitha  summoned  him  to  the  pork 
and  cabbage,  or  such  other  sustenance  as  she  had 
picked  up,  or  Providence  had  sent  them.  Being  a 
truly  pious  man,  Peter  never  failed  to  ask  a  blessing; 
if  the  food  were  none  of  the  best,  then  so  much  the 
more  earnestly,  as  it  was  more  needed ;  —  nor  to  return 
thanks,  if  the  dinner  had  been  scanty,  yet  for  the  good 
appetite,  which  was  better  than  a  sick  stomach  at  a 
feast.  Then  did  he  hurry  back  to  his  toil,  and,  in  a 
moment,  was  lost  to  sight  in  a  cloud  of  dust  from  the 
old  walls,  though  sufficiently  perceptible  to  the  ear,  by 
the  clatter  which  he  raised  in  the  midst  of  it.  How  en- 
viable is  the  consciousness  of  being  usefully  employed ! 
Nothing  troubled  Peter;  or  nothing  but  those  phan- 
toms of  the  mind,  which  seem  like  vague  recollections, 
yet  have  also  the  aspect  of  presentiments.  He  often 
paused,  with  his  axe  uplifted  in  the  air,  and  said  to 
himself,  "  Peter  Goldtliwaite,  did  you  never  strike  this 
blow  before  ?  "  —  or,  "  Peter,  what  need  of  tearing  the 
whole  house  down?  Think,  a  little  while,  and  you 
will  remember  where  the  gold  is  hidden."  Days  and 
weeks  passed  on,  however,  without  any  remarkable  dis- 
covery. Sometimes,  indeed,  a  lean,  gray  rat  peeped 
forth  at  the  lean,  gray  man,  wondering  what  devil  had 
got  into  the  old  house,  which  had  always  been  so  peace- 
able till  now.  And,  occasionally,  Peter  sympathized  with 
the  sorrows  of  a  female  mouse,  who  had  brought  five  or 
six  pretty,  little,  soft,  and  delicate  young  ones  into  the 
world,  just  in  time  to  sae  them  crushed  by  its  ruin. 
But,  as  yet,  no  treasure! 


176  TWICE-TOLD    TALES. 

By  this  time,  Peter,  being  as  determined  as  Fate,  and 
as  diligent  as  Time,  had  made  an  end  with  the  uppermost 
regions,  and  got  down  to  the  second  story,  where  he  was 
busy  in  one  of  the  front  chambers.  It  had  formerly  been 
the  state  bedchamber,  and  was  honored  by  tradition  as 
the  sleeping-apartment  of  Governor  Dudley  and  many 
other  eminent  guests.  The  furniture  was  gone.  There 
were  remnants  of  faded  and  tattered  paper-hangings,  but 
larger  spaces  of  bare  wall,  ornamented  with  charcoal 
sketches,  chiefly  of  people's  heads  in  profile.  These  be- 
ing specimens  of  Peter's  youthful  genius,  it  went  more 
to  his  heart  to  obliterate  them,  than  if  they  had  been 
pictures  on  a  church-wall  by  Michael  Augelo.  One 
sketch,  however,  and  that  the  best  one,  affected  him 
differently.  It  represented  a  ragged  man,  partly  sup- 
porting himself  on  a  spade,  and  bending  his  lean  body 
over  a  hole  in  the  earth,  with  one  hand  extended  to  grasp 
something  that  he  had  found.  But,  close  behind  him, 
with  a  fiendish  laugh  on  his  features,  appeared  a  figure 
with  horns,  a  tufted  tail,  and  a  cloven  hoof. 

"  Avaunt,  Satan !  "  cried  Peter.  "  The  man  shall  have 
his  gold ! " 

Uplifting  his  axe,  he  hit  the  honied  gentleman  such  a 
blow  on  the  head,  as  not  only  demolished  him,  but  the 
treasure-seeker  also,  and  caused  the  whole  scene  to  van- 
ish like  magic.  Moreover,  his  axe  broke  quite  through 
the  plaster  and  laths,  and  discovered  a  cavity. 

"Mercy  on  us,  Mr.  Peter,  are  you  quarrelling  with  the 
Old  Scratch  ?  "  said  Tabitha,  who  was  seeking  some  fuel 
to  put  under  the  dinner-pot. 

Without  answering  the  old  woman,  Peter  broke  down 
a  further  space  of  the  wall,  and  laid  open  a  small  closet 
or  cupboard,  on  one  side  of  the  fireplace,  about  breast 
high  from  the  ground.  It  contained  nothing  but  a  brass 


PETER    GOLDTHWAITE'S    TREASURE.         177 

kmp,  covered  with  verdigris,  and  a  dusty  piece  of  parch- 
ment. While  Peter  inspected  the  latter,  Tabitha  seized 
the  lamp,  and  began  to  rub  it  with  her  apron. 

"  There  is  no  use  in  rubbing  it,  Tabitha,"  said  Peter. 
"  It  is  not  Aladdin's  lamp,  though  I  take  it  to  be  a  token 
of  as  much  luck.  Look  here,  Tabby  !  " 

Tabitha  took  the  parchment  and  held  it  close  to  her 
nose,  which  was  saddled  with  a  pair  of  iron-bound  spec- 
tacles. But  no  sooner  had  she  begun  to  puzzle  over  it, 
than  she  burst  into  a  chuckling  laugh,  holding  both  her 
hands  against  her  sides. 

"  You  can't  make  a  fool  of  the  old  woman ! "  cried  she. 
"  This  is  your  own  handwriting,  Mr.  Peter !  the  same  as 
in  the  letter  you  sent  me  from  Mexico." 

"  There  is  certainly  a  considerable  resemblance,"  said 
Peter,  again  examining  the  parchment.  "  But  you  knoAV 
yourself,  Tabby,  that  this  closet  must  have  been  plastered 
up  before  you  came  to  the  house,  or  I  came  into  the 
world.  No,  this  is  old  Peter  Goldthwaite's  writing; 
these  columns  of  pounds,  shillings,  and  pence  are  his 
figures,  denoting  the  amount  of  the  treasure ;  and  this, 
at  the  bottom,  is  doubtless  a  reference  to  the  place  of 
concealment.  But  the  ink  has  either  faded  or  peeled  off, 
so  that  it  is  absolutely  illegible.  What  a  pity  !  " 

"  Well,  this  lamp  is  as  good  as  new.  That 's  some 
comfort,"  said  Tabitha. 

"  A  lamp  !  "  thought  Peter.  "  That  indicates  light  on 
my  researches." 

For  the  present,  Peter  felt  more  inclined  to  ponder  on 
this  discovery,  than  to  resume  his  labors.  After  Tabitha 
had  gone  down  stairs,  he  stood  poring  over  the  parch- 
ment, at  one  of  the  front  windows,  which  was  so  obscured 
with  dust,  that  the  sun  could  barely  throw  an  uncertain 
shadow  of  the  casement  across  the  floor.  Peter  forced  it 
8*  L 


178  TWICE-TOLD   TALES. 

open,  and  looked  out  upon  the  great  street  of  the  town, 
while  the  sun  looked  in  at  his  old  house.  The  air, 
though  mild  and  even  warm,  thrilled  Peter  as  with  a 
dash  of  water. 

It  was  the  first  day  of  the  January  thaw.  The  snow 
lay  deep  upon  the  house-tops,  but  was  rapidly  dissolving 
into  millions  of  water-drops,  which  sparkled  downwards 
through  the  sunshine,  with  the  noise  of  a  summer  shower 
beneath  the  eaves.  Along  the  street,  the  trodden  snow 
was  as  hard  and  solid  as  a  pavement  of  white  marble,  and 
had  not  yet  grown  moist  in  the  spring-like  temperature. 
But,  when  Peter  thrust  forth  his  head,  he  saw  that  the 
inhabitants,  if  not  the  town,  were  already  thawed  out 
by  this  warm  day,  after  two  or  three  weeks  of  winter 
weather.  It  gladdened  him  —  a  gladness  with  a  sigh 
breathing  through  it  —  to  see  the  stream  of  ladies, 
gliding  along  the  slippery  sidewalks  with  their  red  cheeks 
set  off  by  quilted  hoods,  boas,  and  sable  capes,  like  roses 
amidst  a  new  kind  of  foliage.  The  sleigh-bells  jingled  to 
and  fro  continually,  sometimes  announcing  the  arrival  of 
a  sleigh  from  Vermont,  laden  with  the  frozen  bodies  of 
porkers,  or  sheep,  and  perhaps  a  deer  or  two ;  sometimes 
of  a  regular  market-man,  with  chickens,  geese,  and  tur- 
keys, comprising  the  whole  colony  of  a  barn-yard ;  and 
sometimes  of  a  farmer  and  his  dame,  who  had  come  to 
town  partly  for  the  ride,  partly  to  go  a-shopping,  and 
partly  for  the  sale  of  some  eggs  and  butter.  This  couple 
rode  in  an  old-fashioned  square  sleigh,  which  had  served 
them  twenty  winters,  and  stood  twenty  summers  in  the 
sun  beside  their  door.  Now,  a  gentleman  and  lady 
skimmed  the  snow,  in  an  elegant  car,  shaped  somewhat 
like  a  cockle-shell.  Now,  a  stage-sleigh,  with  its  cloth 
curtains  thrust  aside  to  admit  the  sun,  dashed  rapidly 
down  the  street,  whirling  in  and  out  among  the  vehicles 


PETER  GOLDTHWAITE'S  TREASURE.    179 

that  obstructed  its  passage.  Now  came  round  a  corner 
the  similitude  of  Noah's  ark,  on  runners,  being  an  im- 
mense open  sleigh,  with  seats  for  fifty  people,  and  drawn 
by  a  dozen  horses.  This  spacious  receptacle  was  populous 
with  merry  maids  and  merry  bachelors,  merry  girls  and 
boys,  and  merry  old  folks,  all  alive  with  fun,  and  grinning 
to  the  full  width  of  their  mouths.  They  kept  up  a  buzz 
of  babbling  voices  and  low  laughter,  and  sometimes  burst 
into  a  deep,  joyous  shout,  which  the  spectators  answered 
with  three  cheers,  while  a  gang  of  roguish  boys  let  drive 
their  snowballs  right  among  the  pleasure-party.  The 
sleigh  passed  on,  and,  when  concealed  by  a  bend  of 
the  street,  was  still  audible  by  a  distant  cry  of  merri- 
ment. 

Never  had  Peter  beheld  a  livelier  scene  than  was  con- 
stituted by  all  these  accessories  :  the  bright  sun ;  the 
flashing  water-drops  ;  the  gleaming  snow ;  the  cheerful 
multitude  ;  the  variety  of  rapid  vehicles ;  and  the  jingle- 
jangle  of  merry  bells,  which  made  the  heart  dance  to 
their  music.  Nothing  dismal  was  to  be  seen,  except  that 
peaked  piece  of  antiquity,  Peter  Goldthwaite's  house, 
which  might  well  look  sad  externally,  since  such  a  terri- 
ble consumption  was  preying  on  its  insides.  And  Peter's 
gaunt  figure,  half  visible  iu  the  projecting  second  story, 
was  worthy  of  his  house. 

"  Peter !  How  goes  it,  friend  Peter !  "  cried  a  voice 
across  the  street,  as  Peter  was  drawing  in  his  head. 
"  Look  out  here,  Peter  !  " 

Peter  looked,  and  saw  his  old  partner,  Mr.  John  Brown, 
on  the  opposite  sidewalk,  portly  and  comfortable,  with  his 
furred  cloak  thrown  open,  disclosing  a  handsome  surtout 
beneath.  His  voice  had  directed  the  attention  of  the 
whole  town  to  Peter  Goldthwaite's  window,  and  to  the 
dusty  scarecrow  which  appeared  at  it. 


180  TWICE-TOLD    TALES. 

"I  say,  Peter,"  cried  Mr.  Brown  again,  "what  the 
devil  are  you  about  there,  that  I  hear  such  a  racket, 
whenever  I  pass  by  ?  You  are  repairing  the  old  house, 
I  suppose,  —  making  a  new  one  of  it,  —  eh  ?  " 

"  Too  late  for  that,  I  am  afraid,  Mr.  Brown,"  replied 
Peter.  "  If  I  make  it  new,  it  will  be  new  inside  and  out, 
from  the  cellar  upwards." 

"  Had  not  you  better  let  me  take  the  job  ?  "  said  Mr. 
Brown,  significantly. 

"  Not  yet !  "  answered  Peter,  hastily  shutting  the  win- 
dow ;  for,  ever  since  he  had  been  in  search  of  the  treas- 
ure, he  hated  to  have  people  stare  at  him. 

As  he  drew  back,  ashamed  of  his  outward  poverty,  yet 
proud  of  the  secret  wealth  within  his  grasp,  a  haughty 
smile  shone  out  on  Peter's  visage,  with  precisely  the 
effect  of  the  dim  sunbeams  in  the  squalid  chamber.  He 
endeavored  to  assume  such  a  mien  as  his  ancestor  had 
probably  worn,  when  he  gloried  in  the  building  of  a 
strong  house  for  a  home  to  many  generations  of  his  pos- 
terity. But  the  chamber  was  very  dark  to  his  snow- 
dazzled  eyes,  and  very  dismal  too,  in  contrast  with  the 
living  scene  that  he  had  just  looked  upon.  His  brief 
glimpse  into  the  street  had  given  him  a  forcible  impres- 
sion of  the  manner  in  which  the  world  kept  itself  cheer- 
ful and  prosperous,  by  social  pleasures  and  an  intercourse 
of  business,  while  he,  in  seclusion,  was  pursuing  an  object 
that  might  possibly  be  a  phantasm,  by  a  method  which 
most  people  would  call  madness.  It  is  one  great  advan- 
tage of  a  gregarious  mode  of  life,  that  each  person  recti- 
fies his  mind  by  other  minds,  and  squares  his  conduct  to 
that  of  his  neighbors,  so  as  seldom  to  be  lost  in  eccentricity. 
Peter  Goldthwaite  had  exposed  himself  to  this  influence, 
by  merely  looking  out  of  the  window.  For  a  while,  he 
doubted  whether  there  were  any  hidden  chest  of  gold, 


PETER    GOLDTHWAITE'S    TREASURE.         181 

and,  in  that  case,  whether  it  was  so  exceedingly  wise  to 
tear  the  house  down,  only  to  be  convinced  of  its  non- 
existence. 

But  this  was  momentary.  Peter,  the  Destroyer,  re- 
sumed the  task  which  fate  had  assigned  him,  nor  faltered 
again,  till  it  was  accomplished.  In  the  course  of  his 
search,  he  met  with  many  things  that  are  usually  found 
in  the  ruins  of  an  old  house,  and  also  with  some  that  are 
not.  What  seemed  most  to  the  purpose  was  a  rusty  key, 
which  had  been  thrust  into  a  chink  of  the  wall,  with  a 
wooden  label  appended  to  the  handle,  bearing  the  initials,  , 
P.  G.  Another  singular  discovery  was  that  of  a  bottle  of 
wine,  walled  up  in  an  old  oven.  A  tradition  ran  in  the 
family,  that  Peter's  grandfather,  a  jovial  officer  in  the  old 
French  war,  had  set  aside  many  dozens  of  the  precious 
liquor,  for  the  benefit  of  topers  then  unborn.  Peter 
needed  no  cordial  to  sustain  his  hopes,  and  therefore 
kept  the  wine  to  gladden  his  success.  Many  halfpence 
did  he  pick  up,  that  had  been  lost  through  the  cracks. of 
the  floor,  and  some  few  Spanish  coins,  and  the  half  of  a 
broken  sixpence,  which  had  doubtless  been  a  love-token. 
There  was  likewise  a  silver  coronation  medal  of  George 
the  Third.  But,  old  Peter  Goldthwaite's  strong-box  fled 
from  one  dark  corner  to  another,  or  otherwise  eluded  the 
second  Peter's  clutches,  till,  should  he  seek  much  farther, 
he  must  burrow  into  the  earth. 

We  will  not  follow  him  in  his  triumphant  progress, 
step  by  step.  Suffice  it,  that  Peter  worked  like  a  steam- 
-engine, and  finished,  in  that  one  winter,  the  job,  which 
all  the  former  inhabitants  of  the  house,  with  time  and 
the  elements  to  aid  them,  had  only  half  done  in  a  cen- 
tury. Except  the  kitchen,  every  room  and  chamber  was 
now  gutted.  The  house  was  nothing  but  a  shell,  — 
the  apparition  of  a  house,  —  as  unreal  as  the  painted 


182  TWICE-TOLD    TALES. 

edifices  of  a  theatre.  It  was  like  the  perfect  rind  of 
a  great  cheese,  in  which  a  mouse  had  dwelt  and  nib- 
bled, till  it  was  a  cheese  no  more.  And  Peter  was  the 
mouse. 

What  Peter  had  torn  down,  Tabitha  had  burned  up  : 
for  she  wisely  considered,  that,  without  a  house,  they 
should  need  no  wood  to  warm  it ;  and  therefore  econ- 
omy was  nonsense.  Thus  the  whole  house  might  be  said 
to  have  dissolved  in  smoke,  and  flown  up  among  the 
clouds,  through  the  great  black  flue  of  the  kitchen  chim- 
ney. It  was  an  admirable  parallel  to  the  feat  of  the  man 
who  jumped  down  his  own  throat. 

On  the  night  between  the  last  day  of  winter  and  the 
first  of  spring,  every  chink  and  cranny  had  been  ran- 
sacked, except  within  the  precincts  of  the  kitchen.  This 
fated  evening  was  an  ugly  one.  A  snow-storm  had  set 
in  some  hours  before,  and  was  still  driven  and  tossed 
about  the  atmosphere  by  a  real  hurricane,  which  fought 
against  the  house,  as  if  the  prince  of  the  air,  in  person, 
were  putting  the  final  stroke  to  Peter's  labors.  The 
framework  being  so  much  weakened,  and  the  inward 
props  removed,  it  would  have  been  no  marvel,  if,  in  some 
stronger  wrestle  of  the  blast,  the  rotten  walls  of  the 
edifice,  and  all  the  peaked  roofs,  had  come  crashing  down 
upon  the  owner's  head.  He,  however,  was  careless  of  the 
peril,  but  as  wild  and  restless  as  the  night  itself,  or  as 
the  flame  that  quivered  up  the  chimney,  at  each  roar  of 
the  tempestuous  wind. 

"The  wine,  Tabitha!  "  he  cried.  "My  grandfather's 
rich  old  wine  !  We  will  drink  it  now !  " 

Tabitha  arose  from  her  smoke-blackened  bench  in  the 
chimney-corner,  and  placed  the  bottle  before  Peter,  close 
beside  the  old  brass  lamp,  which  had  likewise  been  the 
prize  of  his  researches.  Peter  held  it  before  his  eyes,  and 


PETER  GOLDTHWAITE'S  TREASURE.    183 

looking  through  the  liquid  medium,  beheld  the  kitchen 
illuminated  with  a  golden  glory,  which  also  enveloped 
Tabitha,  and  gilded  her  silver  hair,  and  converted  her 
mean  garments  into  robes  of  queenly  splendor.  It  re- 
minded him  of  his  golden  dream. 

"  Mr.  Peter,"  remarked  Tabitha,  "  must  the  wine  be 
drunk  before  the  money  is  found  ?  " 

"  The  money  is  found !  "  exclaimed  Peter,  with  a  sort 
of  fierceness.  "  The  chest  is  within  my  reach.  I  will 
not  sleep,  till  I  have  turned  this  key  in  the  rusty  lock. 
But,  first  of  all,  let  us  drink!" 

There  being  no  corkscrew  in  the  house,  he  smote  the 
neck  of  the  bottle  with  old  Peter  Goldthwaite's  rusty 
key,  and  decapitated  the  sealed  cork  at  a  single  blow. 
He  then  filled  two  little  china  teacups,  which  Tabitha 
had  brought  from  the  cupboard.  So  clear  and  brilliant 
was  this  aged  wine,  that  it  shone  within  the  cups,  and 
rendered  the  sprig  of  scarlet  flowers,  at  the  bottom  of 
each,  more  distinctly  visible,  than  when  there  had  been 
no  wine  there.  Its  rich  and  delicate  perfume  wasted 
itself  round  the  kitchen. 

"  Drink,  Tabitha  !  "  cried  Peter.  "  Blessings  on  the 
honest  old  fellow,  who  set  aside  this  good  liquor  for 
you  and  me !  And  here 's  to  Peter  Goldthwaite's 
memory !  " 

"And  good  cause  have  we  to  remember  him,"  quoth 
Tabitha,  as  she  drank. 

How  many  years,  and  through  what  changes  of  for- 
tune, and  various  calamity,  had  that  bottle  hoarded  up 
its  effervescent  joy,  to  be  quaffed  at  last  by  two  such 
boon  companions  !  A  portion  of  the  happiness  of  a 
former  age  had  been  kept  for  them,  and  was  now  set 
free,  in  a  crowd  of  rejoicing  visions,  to  sport  amid  the 
storm  and  desolation  of  the  present  time.  Until  they 


184  TWICE-TOLD   TALES. 

Lave  finished  the  bottle,  we  must  turn  our  eyes  else- 
where. 

It  so  chanced,  that,  ou  this  stormy  night,  Mr.  John 
Brown  found  himself  ill  at  ease,  in  his  wire-cushioned 
arm-chair,  by  the  glowing  grate  of  anthracite,  which 
heated  his  handsome  parlor.  He  was  naturally  a  good 
sort  of  a  man,  and  kind  and  pitiful,  whenever  the  mis- 
fortunes of  others  happened  to  reach  his  heaTt  through 
the  padded  vest  of  his  own  prosperity.  This  evening, 
he  had  thought  much  about  his  old  partner,  Peter 
Goldthwaite,  his  strange  vagaries,  and  continual  ill  luck, 
the  poverty  of  his  dwelling,  at,  Mr.  Brown's  last  visit, 
and  Peter's  crazed  and  haggard  aspect,  when  he  had 
talked  with  him  at  the  window. 

"  Poor  fellow !  "  thought  Mr.  John  Brown.  "  Poor, 
crack-brained  Peter  Goldthwaite !  For  old  acquaintance' 
sake,  I  ought  to  have  taken  care  that  he  was  comforta- 
ble, this  rough  winter." 

These  feelings  grew  so  powerful,  that,  in  spite  of  the 
inclement  weather,  he  resolved  to  visit  Peter  Gold- 
thwaite immediately.  The  strength  of  the  impulse  was 
really  singular.  Every  shriek  of  the  blast  seemed  a 
summons,  or  would  have  seemed  so,  had  Mr.  Brown 
been  accustomed  to  hear  the  echoes  of  his  own  fancy  in 
the  wind.  Much  amazed  at  such  active  benevolence,  he 
huddled  himself  in  his  cloak,  muffled  his  throat  and  ears 
in  comforters  and  handkerchiefs,  and,  thus  fortified,  bade 
defiance  to  the  tempest.  But  the  powers  of  the  air  had 
rather  the  best  of  the  battle.  Mr.  Brown  was  just 
weathering  the  corner,  by  Peter  Goldthwaite's  house, 
when  the  hurricane  caught  him  off  his  feet,  tossed  him 
face  downward  into  a  snow-bank,  and  proceeded  to 
bury  his  protuberant  part  beneath  fresh  drifts.  There 
seemed  little  hope  of  his  reappearance,  earlier  than  the 


PETER    GOLDTHWAITE'S    TREASURE.         185 

next  thaw.  At  the  same  moment,  his  hat  was  snatched 
away,  and  whirled  aloft  into  some  far-distant  region, 
whence  no  tidings  have  as  yet  returned. 

Nevertheless,  Mr.  Brown  contrived  to  burrow  a  pas- 
sags  through  the  snow-drift,  and,  with  his  bare  head 
bent  against  the  storm,  floundered  onward  to  Peter's 
door.  There  was  such  a  creaking,  and  groaning,  and 
rattling,  and  such  an  ominous  shaking  throughout  the 
crazy  edifice,  that  the  loudest  rap  would  have  been  in- 
audible to  those  within.  He  therefore  entered,  without 
ceremony,  and  groped  his  way  to  the  kitchen. 

His  intrusion,  even  there,  was  unnoticed.  Peter  and 
Tabitha  stood  with  their  backs  to  the  door,  stooping  over 
a  large  chest,  which,  apparently,  they  had  just  dragged 
from  a  cavity,  or  concealed  closet,  on  the  left  side  of  the 
chimney.  By  the  lamp  in  the  old  woman's  hand,  Mr. 
Brown  saw  that  the  chest  was  barred  and  clamped  with 
iron,  strengthened  with  iron  plates,  and  studded  with  iron 
nails,  so  as  to  be  a  fit  receptacle  in  which  the  wealth  of 
one  century  might  be  hoarded  up  for  the  wants  of  an- 
other. Peter  Goldthwaite  was  inserting  a  key  into  the 
lock. 

"  0  Tabitha ! "  cried  he,  with  tremulous  rapture, 
"how  shall  I  endure  the  effulgence  ?  The  gold! — the 
bright,  bright  gold  !  Methinks  I  can  remember  my  last 
glance  at  it,  just  as  the  iron-plated  lid  fell  down.  And 
ever  since,  being  seventy  years,  it  has  been  blazing  in 
secret,  and  gathering  its  splendor  against  this  glorious 
moment !  It  will  flash  upon  us  like  the  noonday  sun !  " 

"Then  shade  your  eyes,  Mr.  Peter!  ".said  Tabitha, 
with  somewhat  less  patience  than  usual.  "But,  for 
mercy's  sake,  do  turn  the  key  ! " 

And,  with  a  strong  effort  of  both  hands,  Peter  did 
force  the  rusty  key  through  the  intricacies  of  the  rusty 


186  TWICE-TOLD   TALES. 

lock.  Mr.  Brown,  in  the  mean  time,  had  drawn  near, 
and  thrust  his  eager  visage  between  those  of  the  other 
two,  at  the  instant  that  Peter  threw  up  the  lid.  No 
sudden  blaze  illuminated  the  kitchen. 

"  What 's  here  ?  "  exclaimed  Tabitha,  adjusting  her 
spectacles,  and  holding  the  lamp  over  the  open  chest. 
"Old  Peter  Goldthwaite's  hoard  of  old  rags." 

"  Pretty  much  so,  Tabby,"  said  Mr.  Brown,  lifting  a 
handful  of  the  treasure. 

O,  what  a  ghost  of  dead  and  buried  wealth  had  Peter 
Goldthwaite  raised,  to  scare  himself  out  of  his  scanty 
wits  withal !  Here  was  the  semblance  of  an  incalculable 
sum,  enough  to  purchase  the  whole  town,  and  build 
every  street  anew,  but  which,  vast  as  it  was,  no  sane 
man  would  have  given  a  solid  sixpence  for.  What  then, 
in  sober  earnest,  were  the  delusive  treasures  of  the 
chest  ?  Why,  here  were  old  provincial  bills  of  credit, 
and  treasury  notes,  and  bills  of  land  banks,  and  all 
other  bubbles  of  the  sort,  from  the  first  issue,  above  a 
century  and  a  half  ago,  down  nearly  to  the  Revolution. 
Bills  of  a  thousand  pounds  were  intermixed  with  parch- 
ment pennies,  and  worth  no  more  than  they. 

"  And  this,  then,  is  old  Peter  Goldthwaite's  treasure  !  " 
said  John  Brown.  "  Your  namesake,  Peter,  was  some- 
thing like  yourself;  and,  when  the  provincial  currency 
had  depreciated  fifty  or  seventy-five  per  cent,  he  bought 
it  up,  in  expectation  of  a  rise.  I  have  heard  my  grand- 
father say,  that  old  Peter  gave  his  father  a  mortgage 
of  this  very  house  and  land,  to  raise  cash  for  his  silly 
project.  But  the  currency  kept  sinking,  till  nobody 
would  take  it  as  a  gift ;  and  there  was  old  Peter  Gold- 
thwaite, like  Peter  the  second,  with  thousands  in  his 
strong-box,  and  hardly  a  coat  to  his  back.  He  went 
mad  upon  the  strength  of  it.  But,  never  mind,  Peter ! 


PETER    GOLDTHWAITE'S    TREASURE.         187 

It  is  just  the  sort  of  capital  for  building  castles  in  the 
air." 

"  The  house  will  be  down  about  our  ears !  "  cried 
Tabitha,  as  the  wind  shook  it  with  increasing  violence.  • 

"  Let  it  fall !  "  said  Peter,  folding  his  arms,  as  he 
seated  himself  upon  the  chest. 

"  No,  no,  my  old  friend  Peter,"  said  John  Brown. 
"  I  have  house-room  for  you  and  Tabby,  and  a  safe 
vault  for  the  chest  of  treasure.  To-morrow  we  will  try 
to  come  to  an  agreement  about  the  sale  of  this  old  house. 
Real  estate  is  well  up,  and  I  could  afford  you  a  pretty 
handsome  price." 

"  And  I,"  observed  Peter  Goldthwaite,  with  reviving 
spirits,  "  have  a  plan  for  laying  out  the  cash  to  great  ad- 
vantage." 

"  Why,  as  to  that,"  muttered  John  Brown  to  him- 
self, "  we  must  apply  to  the  next  court  for  a  guardian 
to  take  care  of  the  solid  cash ;  and  if  Peter  insists  upon 
speculating,  he  may  do  it  to  his  heart's  content  with  old 
PETER  GOLDTHWAITE'S  TREASURE." 


CHIRPINGS  WITH  A  CHISEL. 

ASSING  a  summer,  several  years  since,  at  Ed- 
gartown,  on  the  island  of  Martha's  Vineyard,  I 
became  acquainted  with  a  certain  carver  of 
tombstones,  who  had  travelled  and  voyaged  thither  from 
the  interior  of  Massachusetts,  in  search  of  professional 
employment.  The  speculation  had  turned  out  so  suc- 
cessful, that  my  friend  expected  to  transmute  slate  and 
marble  into  silver  and  gold,  to  the  amount  of  at  least  a 
thousand  dollars,  during  the  few  months  of  his  sojourn 
at  Nantucket  and  the  Vineyard.  The  secluded  life,  and 
the  simple  and  primitive  spirit  which  still  characterizes 
the  inhabitants  of  those  islands,  especially  of  Martha's 
Vineyard,  insure  their  dead  friends  a  longer  and  dearer 
remembrance  than  the  daily  novelty  and  revolving  bus- 
tle of  the  world  can  elsewhere  afford  to  beings  of  the 
past.  Yet  while  every  family  is  anxious  to  erect  a  me- 
morial to  its  departed  members,  the  untainted  breath  of 
ocean  bestows  such  health  and  length  of  days  upon  the 
people  of  the  isles,  as  would  cause  a  melancholy  dearth 
of  business  to  a  resident  artist  in  that  line.  His  own 
monument,  recording  his  disease  by  starvation,  would 
probably  be  an  early  specimen  of  his  skill.  Gravestones, 
therefore,  have  generally  been  an  article  of  imported 
merchandise. 


CHIPPINGS   WITH    A    CHISEL.  189 

In  my  walks  through  the  burial-ground  of  Edgartown, 

—  where  the  dead  have  lain  so  long  that  the  soil,  once 
enriched  by  their  decay,  has  returned  to  its  original  bar- 
renness, —  in  that  ancient  burial-ground  I  noticed  much 
variety    of  monumental   sculpture.     The   elder   stones, 
dated  a  century  back,  or  more,  have  borders  elaborately 
carved  with  flowers,  and  are  adorned  with  a  multiplicity 
of  death's-heads,  cross-bones,  scythes,  hour-glasses,  and 
other  lugubrious   emblems  of  mortality,  with   here  and 
there  a  winged  cherub  to  direct   the  mourner's  spirit 
upward.     These  productions  of  Gothic  taste  must  have 
been  quite  beyond  the  colonial  skill  of  the  day,  and  were 
probably   carved   in   London,   and    brought   across   the 
ocean  to  commemorate  the  defunct  worthies  of  this  lonely 
isle.     The  more   recent  monuments   are   mere  slabs   of 
slate,    in  the   ordinary   style,    without   any   superfluous 
flourishes  to  set  off  the  bald  inscriptions.     But  others 

—  and  those  far  the  most  impressive,  both  to  my  taste 
and  feelings  —  were  roughly  hewn  from  the  gray  rocks 
of  the  island,  evidently  by  the  unskilled  hands  of  surviv- 
ing friends  and  relatives.     On  some  there  were  merely 
the  initials  of  a  name  ;  some  were  inscribed  with  misspelt 
prose  or  rhyme,  in  deep   letters,  which  the   moss   and 
wintry  rain  of  many  years  had  not  been  able  to  obliter- 
ate.    These,  these  were  graves  where  loved  ones  slept ! 
It  is  an  old  theme  of  satire,  the  falsehood  and  vanity  of 
monumental  eulogies;    but  when  affection  and   sorrow 
grave  the  letters  with  their  own  painful  labor,  then  we 
may  be  sure  that  they  copy  from  the   record   on  their 
hearts. 

My  acquaintance,  the  sculptor, — he  may  share  that 
title  with  Greenough,  since  the  dauber  of  signs  is  a 
painter  as  well  as  Raphael,  —  had  found  a  ready  market 
for  all  his  blank  slabs  of  marble,  and  full  occupation  in 


190  TWICE-TOLD    TALES. 

lettering  and  ornamenting  them.  He  was  an  elderly 
man,  a  descendant  of  the  old  Puritan  family  of  Wiggles- 
worth,  with  a  certain  simplicity  and  singleness,  both  of 
heart  and  mind,  which,  methiuks,  is  more  rarely  found 
among  us  Yankees  than  in  any  other  community  of  peo- 
ple. In  spite  of  his  gray  head  and  wrinkled  brow,  he 
was  quite  like  a  child  in  all  matters  save  what  had  some 
reference  to  his  own  business;  he  seemed,  unless  my 
fancy  misled  me,  to  view  mankind  in  no  other  relation 
than  as  people  in  want  of  tombstones ;  and  his  literary 
attainments  evidently  comprehended  very  little,  either  of 
prose  or  poetry,  which  had  not,  at  one  time  or  other, 
been  inscribed  on  slate  or  marble.  His  sole  task  and 
office  among  the  immortal  pilgrims  of  the  tomb  —  the 
duty  for  which  Providence  had  sent  the  old  man  into 
the  world,  as  it  were  with  a  chisel  in  his  hand  —  was  to 
label  the  dead  bodies,  lest  their  names  should  be  for- 
gotten at  the  resurrection.  Yet  he  had  not  failed,  within 
a  narrow  scope,  to  gather  a  few  sprigs  of  earthly,  and 
more  than  earthly,  wisdom,  —  the  harvest  of  many  a 
grave. 

And  lugubrious  as  his  calling  might  appear,  he  was  as 
cheerful  an  old  soul  as  health,  and  integrity,  and  lack  of 
care,  could  make  him,  and  used  to  set  to  work  upon  one 
sorrowful  inscription  or  another  with  that  sort  of  spirit 
which  impels  a  man  to  sing  at  his  labor.  On  the  whole, 
I  found  Mr.  Wigglesworth  an  entertaining,  and  often 
instructive,  if  not  an  interesting  character;  and  partly 
for  the  charm  of  his  society,  and  still  more  because  his 
work  has  an  invariable  attraction  for  "  man  that  is  born 
of  woman,"  I  was  accustomed  to  spend  some  hours  a 
day  at  his  workshop.  The  quaintness  of  his  remarks, 
and  their  not  infrequent  truth,  —  a  truth  condensed  and 
pointed  by  the  limited  sphere  of  his  view,  —  gave  a 


CHIPPINGS   WITH   A   CHISEL.  191 

raciness  to  his  talk,  which  mere  worldliness  and  general 
cultivation  would  at  once  have  destroyed. 

Sometimes  we  would  discuss  the  respective  merits  of 
the  various  qualities  of  marble,  numerous  slabs  of  which 
were  resting  against  the  walls  of  the  shop ;  or  sometimes 
an  hour  or  two  would  pass  quietly,  without  a  word  on 
either  side,  while  I  watched  how  neatly  his  chisel  struck 
out  letter  after  letter  of  the  names  of  the  Nortous,  the 
Mayhews,  the  Luces,  the  Daggets,  and  other  immemorial 
families  of  the  Vineyard.  Often,  with  an  artist's  pride, 
the  good  old  sculptor  would  speak  of  favorite  productions 
of  his  skill,  which  were  scattered  throughout  the  village 
graveyards  of  New  England.  But  my  chief  and  most 
instructive  amusement  was  to  witness  his  interviews  with 
his  customers,  who  held  interminable  consultations  about 
the  form  and  fashion  of  the '  desired  monuments,  the 
buried  excellence  to  be  commemorated,  the  anguish  to 
be  expressed,  and  finally,  the  lowest  price  in  dollars  and 
cents  for  which  a  marble  transcript  of  their  feelings  might 
be  obtained.  Really,  my  mind  received  many  fresh  ideas, 
which,  perhaps,  may  remain  in  it  even  longer  than  Mr. 
Wigglesworth's  hardest  marble  will  retain  the  deepest 
strokes  of  his  chisel. 

An  elderly  lady  came  to  bespeak  a  monument  for  her 
first  love,  who  had  been  killed  by  a  whale  in  the  Pacific 
Ocean  no  less  than  forty  years  before.  It  was  singular 
that  so  strong  an  impression  of  early  feeling  should  have 
survived  through  the  changes  of  her  subsequent  life,  in 
the  course  of  which  she  had  been  a  wife  and  a  mother,  and, 
so  far  as  I  could  judge,  a  comfortable  and  happy  woman. 
Reflecting  within  myself,  it  appeared  to  me  that  this  life- 
long sorrow  —  as,  in  all  good  faith,  she  deemed  it  —  was 
one  of  the  most  fortunate  circumstances  of  her  history. 
It  had  given  an  ideality  to  her  mind;  it  had  kept  her 


192  TWICE-TOLD    TALES. 

purer  and  less  earthly  than  she  would  otherwise  have 
been,  by  drawing  a  portion  of  her  sympathies  apart  from 
earth.  Amid  the  throng  of  enjoyments,  and  the  pressure 
of  worldly  care,  and  all  the  warm  materialism  of  this  life, 
she  had  communed  with  a  vision,  and  had  been  the  better 
for  such  intercourse.  Faithful  to  the  husband  of  her 
maturity,  and  loving  him  with  a  far  more  real  affection 
than  she  ever  could  have  felt  for  this  dream  of  her  girl- 
hood, there  had  still  been  an  imaginative  faith  to  the 
ocean-buried,  so  that  an  ordinary  character  had  thus  been 
elevated  and  refined.  Her  sighs  had  been  the  breath  of 
Heaven  to  her  soul.  The  good  lady  earnestly  desired 
that  the  proposed  monument  should  be  ornamented  with 
a  carved  border  of  marine  plants,  intertwined  with  twisted 
sea-shells,  such  as  were  probably  waving  over  her  lover's 
skeleton,  or  strewn  around  it,  in  the  far  depths  of  the 
Pacific.  But  Mr.  Wigglesworth's  chisel  being  inadequate 
to  the  task,  she  was  forced  to  content  herself  with  a  rose, 
hanging  its  head  from  a  broken  stem.  After  her  de- 
parture, I  remarked  that  the  symbol  was  none  of  the 
most  apt. 

"  And  yet,"  said  my  friend  the  sculptor,  embodying  in 
this  image  the  thoughts  that  had  been  passing  through 
my  own  mind,  "  that  broken  rose  has  shed  its  sweet  smell 
through  forty  years  of  the  good  woman's  life." 

It  was  seldom  that  I  could  find  such  pleasant  food  for 
contemplation  as  in  the  above  instance.  None  of  the 
applicants,  I  think,  affected  me  more  disagreeably  than 
an  old  man  who  came,  with  his  fourth  wife  hanging  on 
his  arm,  to  bespeak  gravestones  for  the  three  former 
occupants  of  his  marriage -bed.  I  watched  with  some 
anxiety  to  see  whether  his  remembrance  of  either  were 
more  affectionate  than  of  the  other  two,  but  could  dis- 
cover no  symptom  of  the  kind.  The  three  monuments 


CHIPPINGS    WITH    A    CHISEL.  193 

were  all  to  be  of  the  same  material  and  form,  and  each 
decorated,  in  bas-relief,  with  two  weep  ing- willows,  one 
of  these  sympathetic  trees  bending  over  its  fellow,  which 
was  to  be  broken  in  the  midst  and  rest  upon  a  sepulchral 
urn.  This,  indeed,  was  Mr.  Wigglesworth's  standing 
emblem  of  conjugal  bereavement.  I  shuddered  at  the 
gray  polygamist,  who  had  so  utterly  lost  the  holy  sense 
of  individuality  in  wedlock,  that  methought  he  was  fain 
to  reckon  upon  his  fingers  how  many  women,  who  had 
once  slept  by  his  side,  were  now  sleeping  in  their  graves. 
There  was  even  —  if  I  wrong  him  it  is  no  great  matter 
—  a  glance  sidelong  at  his  living  spouse,  as  if  he  were 
inclined  to  drive  a  thriftier  bargain  by  bespeaking  four 
gravestones  in  a  lot.  I  was  better  pleased  with  a  rough 
old  whaling  captain,  who  gave  directions  for  a  broad 
marble  slab,  divided  into  two  compartments,  one  of  which 
was  to  contain  an  epitaph  on  his  deceased  wife,  and  the 
other  to  be  left  vacant,  till  death  should  engrave  his 
own  name  there.  As  is  frequently  the  case  among  the 
whalers  of  Martha's  Vineyard,  so  much  of  this  storrn- 
beaten  widower's  life  had  been  tossed  away  on  distant 
seas,  that  out  of  twenty  years  of  matrimony  he  had  spent 
scarce  three,  and  those  at  scattered  intervals,  beneath  his 
own  roof.  Thus  the  wife  of  his  youth,  though  she  died 
in  his  and  her  declining  age,  retained  the  bridal  dewdrops 
fresh  around  her  memory. 

My  observations  gave  me  the  idea,  and  Mr.  Wiggles- 
worth  confirmed  it,  that  husbands  were  more  faithful  in 
setting  up  memorials  to  their  dead  wives  than  widows  to 
their  dead  husbands.  I  was  not  ill-natured  enough  to 
fancy  that  women,  less  than  men,  feel  so  sure  of  their 
own  constancy  as  to  be  willing  to  give  a  pledge  of  it  in 
marble.  It  is  more  probably  the  fact,  that  while  men 
are  able  to  reflect  upon  their  lost  companions  as  remem- 

VOL.  II.  9  M 


194  TWICE-TOLD    TALES. 

brances  apart  from  themselves,  women,  on  the  other  hand, 
are  conscious  that  a  portion  of  their  being  has  gone  with 
the  departed  whithersoever  he  has  gone.  Soul  clings  to 
soul ;  the  living  dust  has  a  sympathy  with  the  dust  of 
the  grave;  and,  by  the  very  strength  of  that  sympathy, 
the  wife  of  the  dead  shrinks  the  more  sensitively  from 
reminding  the  world  of  its  existence.  The  link  is  al- 
ready strong  enough ;  it  needs  no  visible  symbol.  And, 
though  a  shadow  walks  ever  by  her  side,  and  the  touch 
of  a  chill  hand  is  on  her  bosom,  yet  life,  and  perchance 
its  natural  yearnings,  may  still  be  warm  within  her,  and 
inspire  her  with  new  hopes  of  happiness.  Then  would 
she  mark  out  the  grave,  the  scent  of  which  would  be 
perceptible  on  the  pillow  of  the  second  bridal  ?  No  — • 
but  rather  level  its  green  mound  with  the  surrounding 
earth,  as  if,  when  she  dug  up  again  her  buried  heart, 
the  spot  had  ceased  to  be  a  grave.  Yet,  in  spite  of  these 
sentimentalities,  I  was  prodigiously  amused  by  an  inci- 
dent, of  which  I  had  not  the  good  fortune  to  be  a  wit- 
ness, but  which  Mr.  Wigglesworth  related  with  consid- 
erable humor.  A  gentlewoman  of  the  town,  receiving 
news  of  her  husband's  loss  at  sea,  had  bespoken  a  hand- 
some slab  of  marble,  and  came  daily  to  watch  the  pro- 
gress of  my  friend's  chisel.  .One  afternoon,  when  the 
good  lady  and  the  sculptor  were  in  the  very  midst  of 
the  epitaph,  which  the  departed  spirit  might  have  been 
greatly  comforted  to  read,  who  should  walk  into  the 
workshop  but  the  deceased  himself,  in  substance  as  well 
as  spirit !  He  had  been  picked  up  at  sea,  and  stood  in 
no  present  need  of  tombstone  or  epitaph. 

"  And  how,"  inquired  I,  "  did  his  wife  bear  the  shock 
of  joyful  surprise?" 

"Why,"  said  the  old  man,  deepening  the  grin  of  a 
death's-head,  on  which  his  chisel  was  just  then  em- 


GHIPPINGS   WITH   A   CHISEL.  195 

ployed,  "  I  really  felt  for  the  poor  woman ;  it  was  one 
of  my  best  pieces  of  marble,  —  and  to  be  thrown  away 
on  a  living  man  !  " 

A  comely  woman,  with  a  pretty  rosebud  of  a  daugh- 
ter, came  to  select  a  gravestone  for  a  twin-daughter, 
who  had  died  a  mouth  before.  I  was  impressed  with 
the  different  nature  of  their  feelings  for  the  dead ;  the  * 
mother  was  calm  and  wofully  resigned,  fully  conscious 
of  her  loss,  as  of  a  treasure  which  she  had  not  always 
possessed,  and,  therefore,  had  been  aware  that  it  might 
be  taken  from  her ;  but  the  daughter  evidently  had  no 
real  knowledge  of  what  death's  doings  were.  Her 
thoughts  knew,  but  not  her  heart.  It  seemed  to  me, 
that  by  the  print  and  pressure  which  the  dead  sister 
had  left  upon  the  survivor's  spirit,  her  feelings  •  were 
almost  the  same  as  if  she  still  stood  side  by  side,  and 
arm  in  arm,  with  the  departed,  looking  at  the  slabs  of 
marble ;  and  once  or  twice  she  glanced  around  with  a 
sunny  smile,  which,  as  its  sister  smile  had  faded  for- 
ever, soon  grew  confusedly  overshadowed.  Perchance 
her  consciousness  was  truer  than  her  reflection,  —  per- 
chance her  dead  sister  was  a  closer  companion  .than  in 
life.  The  mother  and  daughter  talked  a  long  while  with 
Mr.  Wigglesvvorth  about  a  suitable  epitaph,  and  finally 
choss  an  ordinary  verse  of  ill-matched  rhymes,  which 
had  already  been  inscribed  upon  innumerable  tomb- 
stones. But,  when  we  ridicule  the  triteness  of  monu- 
mental verses,  we  forget  that  Sorrow  reads  far  deeper 
in  them  than  we  can,  and  finds  a  profound  and  individ- 
ual purport  in  what  seems  so  vague  and  inexpressive, 
unless  interpreted  by  her.  She  makes  the  epitaph  anew, 
though  the  self-same  words  may  have  served  for  a  thou- 
sand graves. 

"And  yet,"  said  I  afterwards  to  Mr.  Wigglesworth, 


196  TWICE-TOLD    TALES. 

"they  might  have  made  a  better  choice  than  this. 
While  you  were  discussing  the  subject,  I  was  struck 
by  at  least  a  dozen  simple  and  natural  expressions  from 
the  lips  of  both  mother  and  daughter.  One  of  these 
would  have  formed  an  inscription  equally  original  and 
appropriate." 

"  No,  no,"  replied  the  sculptor,  shaking  his  head, 
"  there  is  a  good  deal  of  comfort  to  be  gathered  from 
these  little  old  scraps  of  poetry ;  and  so  I  always  rec- 
ommend them  in  preference  to  any  new-fangled  ones. 
And  somehow,  they  seem  to  stretch  to  suit  a  great  grief, 
and  shrink  to  fit  a  small  one." 

It  was  not  seldom  that  ludicrous  images  were  excited 
by  what  took  place  between  Mr.  Wigglesworth  and  his 
customers.  A  shrewd  gentlewoman,  who  kept  a  tavern 
in  the  town,  was  anxious  to  obtain  two  or  three  grave- 
stones for  the  deceased  members  of  her  family,  and  to 
pay  for  these  solemn  commodities  by  taking  the  sculptor 
to  board. '  Hereupon  a  fantasy  arose  in  my  mind,  of 
good  Mr.  Wigglesworth  sitting  "down  to  dinner  at  a 
broad,  flat  tombstone,  carving  one  of  his  own  plump 
little  marble  cherubs,  gnawing  a  pair  of  cross-bones, 
and  drinking  out  of  a  hollow  death's-head,  or  perhaps 
a  lachrymatory  vase,  or  sepulchral  urn ;  while  his  hos- 
tess's dead  children  waited  on  him  at  the  ghastly  ban- 
quet. On  communicating  this  nonsensical  picture  to  the 
old  man,  he  laughed  heartily,  and  pronounced  my  humor 
to  be  of  the  right  sort. 

"  I  have  lived  at  such  a  table  all  my  days,"  said  he, 
"and  eaten  no  small  quantity  of  slate  and  marble." 

"Hard  fare!"  rejoined  I,  smiling;  "but  you  seemed 
to  have  found  it  excellent  of  digestion,  too." 

A  man  of  fifty,  or  thereabouts,  with  a  harsh,  unpleas- 
ant countenance,  ordered  a  stone  for  the  grave  of  his 


CIIIPPINGS   WITH    A    CHISEL.  197 

bitter  enemy  with  whom  he  had  waged  warfare  half  a 
lifetime,  to  their  mutual  misery  and  ruin.  The  secret  of 
this  phenomenon  was,  that  hatred  had  become  the  sus- 
tenance and  enjoyment  of  the  poor  wretch's  soul ;  it  had 
supplied  the  place  of  all  kindly  affections  ;  it  had  been 
really  a  bond  of  sympathy  between  himself  and  the  man 
who  shared  the  passion ;  and  when  its  object  died,  the 
unappeasable  foe  was  the  only  mourner  for  the  dead. 
He  expressed  a  purpose  of  being  buried  side  by  side 
with  his  enemy. 

"  I  doubt  whether  their  dust  will  mingle,"  remarked 
the  old  sculptor  to  me  ;  for  often  there  was  an  earthliness 
in  his  conceptions. 

"  O  yes,"  replied  I,  who  had  mused  long  upon  the  in- 
cident ;  "  and  when  they  rise  again,  these  bitter  foes  may 
find  themselves  dear  friends.  Methinks  what  they  mis- 
took for  hatred  was  but  love  under  a  mask." 

A  gentleman  of  antiquarian  propensities  provided  a 
memorial  for  an  Indian  of  Chabbiquidick,  one  of  the  few 
of  untainted  blood  remaining  in  that  region,  and  said  to 
be  an  hereditary  chieftain,  descended  from  the  sachem 
who  welcomed  Governor  Mayhew  to  the  Vineyard.  Mr. 
Wigglesworth  exerted  his  best  skill  to  carve  a  broken 
bow  and  scattered  sheaf  of  arrows,  in  memory  of  the 
hunters  and  warriors  whose  race  was  ended  here  ;  but  he 
likewise  sculptured  a  cherub,  to  denote  that  the  poor 
Indian  had  shared  the  Christian's  hope  of  immortality. 

"  Why,"  observed  I,  taking  a  perverse  view  of  the 
winged  boy  and  the  bow  and  arrows,  "  it  looks  more  like 
Cupid's  tomb  than  an  Indian  chiefs  !  " 

"  You  talk  nonsense,"  said  the  sculptor,  with  the 
offended  pride  of  art ;  he  then  added,  with  his  usual  good- 
nature, "  How  can  Cupid  die  when  there  are  sucli  pretty 
maidens  in  the  Vineyard  ?  " 


198  TWICE-TOLD    TALES. 

"  Very  true,"  answered  I ;  and  for  the  rest  of  the  day 
I  thought  of  other  matters  than  tombstones. 

At  our  next  meeting  I  found  him  chiselling  an  open 
book  upon  a  marble  headstone,  and  concluded  that  it 
was  meant  to  express  the  erudition  of  some  black-letter 
clergyman  of  the  Cotton  Mather  school.  It  turned  out, 
however,  to  be  emblematical  of  the  scriptural  knowledge 
of  an  old  woman  who  had  never  read  anything  but  her 
Bible  ;  and  the  monument  was  a  tribute  to  her  piety  and 
good  works,  from  the  Orthodox  church,  of  which  she  had 
been  a  member.  In  strange  contrast  with  this  Christian 
woman's  memorial,  was  that  of  an  infidel,  whose  grave- 
stone, by  his  own  direction,  bore  an  avowal  of  his  belief 
that  the  spirt  within  him  would  be  extinguished  like  a 
flame,  and  that  the  nothingness  whence  he  sprang  would 
receive  him  again.  Mr.  Wigglesworth  consulted  me  as 
to  the  propriety  of  enabling  a  dead  man's  dust  to  utter 
this  dreadful  creed. 

"  If  I  thought,"  said  he,  "  that  a  single  mortal  would 
read  the  inscription  without  a  shudder,  my  chisel  should 
never  cut  a  letter  of  it.  But  when  the  grave  speaks  such 
falsehoods,  the  soul  of  man  will  know  the  truth  by  its 
own  horror." 

"  So  it  will,"  said  I,  struck  by  the  idea ;  "  the  poor 
infidel  may  strive  to  preach  blasphemies  from  his  grave  ; 
but  it  will  be  only  another  method  of  impressing  the 
soul  with  a  consciousness  of  immortality." 

There  was  an  old  man  by  the  name  of  Norton,  noted 
throughout  the  island  for  his  great  wealth,  which  he 
had  accumulated  by  the  exercise  of  strong  and  shrewd 
faculties,  combined  with  a  most  penurious ,  disposition. 
This  wretched  miser,  conscious  that  he  had  not  a  friend 
to  be  mindful  of  him  in  his  grave,  had  himself  taken  the 
needful  precautions  for  posthumous  remembrance,  ly 


CHIPPINGS    WITH    A    CHISEL.  1J9 

bespeaking  an  immense  slab  of  white  marble,  with  a  long 
epitaph  in  raised  letters,  the  whole  to  be  as  magnificent 
as  Mr.  Wigglesworth's  skill  could  make  it.  There  was 
something  very  characteristic  in  this  contrivance  to  have 
his  money's  worth  even  from  his  own  tombstone,  which, 
indeed,  afforded  him  more  enjoyment  in  the  few  months 
that  he  lived  thereafter,  than  it  probably  will  in  a  whole 
century,  now  that  it  is  laid  over  his  bones.  This  incident 
reminds  me  of  a  young  girl,  a  pale,  slender,  feeble  crea- 
ture, most  unlike  the  other  rosy  and  healthful  damsels 
of  the  Vineyard,  amid  whose  brightness  she  was  fading 
away.  Day  after  day  did  the  poor  maiden  come  to  the 
sculptor's  shop,  and  pass  from  one  piece  of  marble  to  an- 
other, till  at  last  she  pencilled  her  name  upon  a  slender 
slab,  which,  I  think,  was  of  a  more  spotless  white  than  all 
the  rest.  I  saw  her  no  more,  but  soon  afterwards  found 
Mr.  Wigglesworth  cutting  her  virgin  name  into  the  stone 
which  she  had  chosen. 

"  She  is  dead,  —  poor  girl,"  said  he,  interrupting  the 
tune  which  he  was  whistling,  "  and  she  chose  a  good 
piece  of  stuff  for  her  headstone.  Now  which  of  these 
slabs  would  you  like  bast  to  see  your  own  name  upon  ?  " 

"  Why,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  my  good  Mr.  Wiggles- 
worth,"  replied  I,  after  a  moment's  pause,  —  for  the  ab- 
ruptness of  the  question  had  somewhat  startled  me,  — 
"  to  be  quite  sincere  with  you,  I  care  little  or  nothing 
about  a  stone  for  my  own  grave,  and  am  somewhat  in- 
clined to  scepticism  as  to  the  propriety  of  erecting  monu- 
ments at  all,  over  the  dust  that  once  was  human.  The 
weight  of  these  heavy  marbles,  though  unfelt  by  the  dead 
corpse  of  the  enfranchised  soul,  presses  drearily  upon  the 
spirit  of  the  survivor,  and  causes  him  to  connect  the  idea 
of  death  with  the  dungeon-like  imprisonment  of  the  tomb, 
instead  of  with  the  freedom  of  the  skies.  Everv  s^rave- 


200  TWICE-TOLD    TALES. 

stone  that  you  ever  made  is  the  visible  symbol  of  a  mis- 
taken system.  Our  thoughts  should  soar  upward  with 
the  butterfly,  —  not  linger  with  the  exuviae  that  coiifiued 
him.  In  truth  and  reason,  neither  those  whom  we  call 
the  living,  and  still  less  the  departed,  have  anything  to  do 
with  the  grave." 

"  I  never  heard  anything  so  heathenish  !  "  said  Mr. 
Wigglesworth,  perplexed  and  displeased  at  sentiments 
which  controverted  all  his  notions  and  feelings,  and  im- 
plied the  utter  waste,  and  worse,  of  his  whole  life's  labor ; 
"would  you  forget  your  dead  friends,  the  moment  they 
are  under  the  sod  ?  " 

"They  are  not  under  the  sod,"  I  rejoined;  "  then  why 
should  I  mark  the  spot  where  there  is  no  treasure  hid- 
den !  Forget  them  ?  No  !  But  to  remember  them 
aright,  I  would  forget  what  they  have  cast  off.  And  to 
gain  the  truer  conception  of  DEATH,  I  would  forget  the 
GRAYS ! " 

But  still  the  good  old  sculptor  murmured,  and  stum- 
bled, as  it  were,  over  the  gravestones  amid  which  he  had 
walked  through  life.  Whether  he  were  right  or  wrong, 
I  had  grown  the  wiser  from  our  companionship  and  from 
my  observations  of  nature  and  character,  as  displayed  by 
those  who  came,  with  their  old  griefs  or  their  new  ones, 
to  get  them  recorded  upon  his  slabs  of  marble.  And  yet, 
with  my  gain  of  wisdom,  I  had  likewise  gained  perplex- 
ity ;  for  there  was  a  strange  doubt  in  my  mind,  whether 
the  dark  shadowing  of  this  life,  the  sorrows  and  regrets, 
have  not  as  much  real  comfort  in  them — leaving  relig- 
ious influences  out  of  the  question  —  as  what  we  term 
life's  joys. 


THE  SHAKER  BRIDAL. 


day,  in  the  sick-chamber  of  Father  Ephraim, 
who  had  been  forty  years  the  presiding  elder 
over  the  Shaker  settlement  at  Goshen,  there 
was  an  assemblage  of  several  of  the  chief  men  of  the 
sect.  Individuals  had  come  from  the  rich  establishment 
at  Lebanon,  from  Canterbury,  Harvard,  and  Alfred,  and 
from  all  the  other  localities  where  this  strange  people 
have  fertilized  the  rugged  hills  of  New  England  by  their 
systematic  industry.  An  elder  was  likewise  there,  who 
had  made  a  pilgrimage  of  a  thousand  miles  from  a  village 
of  the  faithful  in  Kentucky,  to  visit  his  spiritual  kindred, 
the  children  of  the  sainted  Mother  Ann.  He  had  par- 
taken of  the  homely  abundance  of  their  tables,  had  quaffed 
the  far-famed  Shaker  cider,  and  had  joined  in  the  sacred 
dance,  every  step  of  which  is  believed  to  alienate  the  en- 
thusiast from  earth,  and  bear  him  onward  to  heavenly 
purity  and  bliss.  His  brethren  of  the  North  had  now 
courteously  invited  him  to  be  present  on  an  occasion 
when  the  concurrence  of  every  eminent  member  of  their 
community  was  peculiarly  desirable. 

The  venerable  Father  Ephraim  sat  in  his  easy-chair, 

not  only  hoary-headed  and  infirm  with   age,  but  worn 

down  by  a  lingering  disease,  which,  it  was  evident,  would 

very  soon  transfer  his  patriarchal  staff  to  other  hands. 

9* 


202  TVriCE-TOLD   TALES. 

At  liis  footstool  stood  a  man  and  woman,  both  clad  in  the 
Shaker  garb. 

"  My  brethren,"  said  Father  Ephraim  to  the  surround- 
ing elders,  feebly  exerting  himself  to  utter  these  few  words, 
"  here  are  the  son  and  daughter  to  whom  I  would  com- 
mit the  trust  of  which  Providence  is  about  to  lighten  my 
weary  shoulders.  Read  their  faces,  I  pray  you,  and  say 
whether  the  inward  movement  of  the  spirit  hath  guided 
my  choice  aright." 

Accordingly,  each  elder  looked  at  the  two  candidates 
with  a  most  scrutinizing  gaze.  The  man,  whose  name 
was  Adam  Colburn,  had  a  face  sunburnt  with  labor  in 
the  fields,  yet  intelligent,  thoughtful,  and  traced  witli 
cares  enough  for  a  whole  lifetime,  though  he  had  barely 
reached  middle  age.  There  was  something  severe  in  liis 
aspect,  and  a  rigidity  throughout  his  person,  characteris- 
tics that  caused  him  generally  to  be  taken  for  a  school- 
master; which  vocation,  in  fact,  he  had  formerly  exercised 
for  several  years.  The  woman,  Martha  Pierson,  was 
somewhat  above  thirty,  thin  and  pale,  as  a  Shaker  sister 
almost  invariably  is,  and  not  entirely  free  from  that 
corpse-like  appearance,  which  the  garb  of  the  sisterhood 
is  so  well  calculated  to  impart. 

"  This  pair  are  still  in  the  summer  of  their  years," 
observed  the  elder  from  Harvard,  a  shrewd  old  man. 
"  I  would  like  better  to  see  the  hoarfrost  of  autumn  on 
their  heads.  Methinks,  also,  they  will  be  exposed  to 
peculiar  temptations,  on  account  of  the  carnal  desires 
which  have  heretofore  subsisted  between  them." 

"  Nay,  brother,"  said  the  elder  from  Canterbury,  "  the 
hoarfrost  and  the  blackfrost  hath  done  its  work  on 
Brother  Adam  and  Sister  Martha,  even  as  we  sometimes 
discern  its  traces  in  our  cornfields  while  they  are  yet 
green.  And  why  should  we  question  the-wisdom  of  our 


THE    SHAKER    BRIDAL.  203 

venerable  Father's  purpose,  although  this  pair,  in  their 
early  youth,  have  loved  one  another  as  the  world's  people 
love  ?  Are  there  not  many  brethren  and  sisters  among 
us  who  have  lived  long  together  in  wedlock,  yet,  adopt- 
ing our  faith,  find  their  hearts  purified  from  all  but  spirit- 
ual affection  ?  " 

Whether  or  no  the  early  loves  of  Adam  and  Martha 
had  rendered  it  inexpedient  that  they  should  now  preside 
together  over  a  Shaker  village,  it  was  certainly  most  sin- 
gular that  such  should  be  the  final  result  of  many  warm 
and  tender  hopes.  Children  of  neighboring  families,  their 
affection  was  older  even  than  their  school-days ;  it  seemed 
an  innate  principle,  interfused  among  all  their  sentiments 
and  feelings,  and  not  so  much  a  distinct  remembrance, 
as  connected  with  their  whole  volume  of  remembrances. 
But,  just  as  they  reached  a  proper  age  for  their  union, 
misfortunes  had  fallen  heavily  on  both,  and  made  it  neces- 
sary that  they  should  resort  to  personal  labor  for  a  bare 
subsistence.  Even  under  these  circumstances,  Martha 
Pierson  would  probably  have  consented  to  unite  her  fate 
with  Adam  Colburn's,  and,  secure  of  the  bliss  of  mutual 
love,  would  patiently  have  awaited  the  less  important 
gifts  of  fortune.  But  Adam,  being  of  a  calm  and  cautious 
character,  was  loath  to  relinquish  the  advantages  which 
a  single  man  possesses  for  raising  himself  in  the  world. 
Year  after  year,  therefore,  their  marriage  had  been  de- 
ferred. Adam  Colburn  had  followed  many  vocations, 
had  travelled  far,  and  seen  much  of  the  world  and  of  life. 
Martha  had  earned  her  bread  sometimes  as  a  seamstress, 
sometimes  as  help  to  a  farmer's  wife,  sometimes  as  school- 
mistress of  the  village  children,  sometimes  as  a  nurse  or 
watcher  of  the  sick,  thus  acquiring  a  varied  experience, 
the  ultimate  use  of  which  she  little  anticipated.  But 
nothing  had  gone  prosperously  with  either  of  the  lovers ; 


201-  TWICE-TOLD    TALES. 

at  no  subsequent  moment  would  matrimony  have  been  so 
prudent  a  measure  as  when  they  had  first  parted,  in  the 
opening  bloom  of  life,  to  seek  a  better  fortune.  Still  they 
had  held  fast  their  mutual  faith.  Martha  might  have  been 
the  wife  of  a  man  who  sat  among  the  senators  of  his 
native  State  ;  and  Adam  could  have  won  the  hand,  as  he 
had  unintentionally  won  the  heart,  of  a  rich  and  comely 
widow.  But  neither  of  them  desired  good  fortune,  save 
to  share  it  with  the  other. 

At  length  that  calm  despair  which  occurs  only  in  a 
strong  and  somewhat  stubborn  character,  and  yields  to 
no  second  spring  of  hope,  settled  down  on  the  spirit  of 
Adam  Colburn.  He  sought  an  interview  with  Martha, 
and  proposed  that  they  should  join  the  Society  of  Shak- 
ers. The  converts  of  this  sect  are  oftener  driven  within 
its  hospitable  gates  by  worldly  misfortune,  than  drawn 
thither  by  fanaticism,  and  are  received  without  inquisition 
as  to  their  motives.  Martha,  faithful  still,  had  placed  her 
hand  in  that  of  her  lover,  and  accompanied  him  to  the 
Shaker  village.  Here  the  natural  capacity  of  each,  culti- 
vated and  strengthened  by  the  difficulties  of  their  previous 
lives,  had  soon  gained  them  an  important  rank  in  the  So- 
ciety, whose  members  are  generally  below  the  ordinary 
standard  of  intelligence.  Their  faith  and  feelings  had, 
in  some  degree,  become  assimilated  to  those  of  their 
fellow- worshippers.  Adam  Colburn  gradually  acquired 
reputation,  not  only  in  the  management  of  the  temporal 
affairs  of  the  Society,  but  as  a  clear  and  efficient  preacher 
of  their  doctrines.  Martha  was  not  less  distinguished  in 
the  duties  proper  to  her  sex.  Finally,  when  the  infirm- 
ities of  Father  Ephraim  had  admonished  him  to  seek  a 
successor  in  his  patriarchal  office,  lie  thought  of  Adam 
and  Martha,  and  proposed  to  renew,  in  their  persons,  the 
primitive  form  of  Shaker  government,  as  established  by 


THE    SHAKER   BRIDAL.  205 

Mother  Ann.  They  were  to  be  the  Father  and  Mother 
of  the  village.  The  simple  ceremony,  which  would  con- 
stitute them  such,  was  now  to  be  performed. 

"  Son  Adam,  and  daughter  Martha,"  said  the  vener- 
able Father  Ephraim,  fixing  his  aged  eyes  piercingly  upon 
them,  "  if  ye  can  conscientiously  undertake  this  charge, 
speak,  that  the  brethren  may  not  doubt  of  your  fitness." 

"  Father,"  replied  Adam,  speaking  with  the  calmness 
of  his  character,  "  I  came  to  your  village  a  disappointed 
man,  weary  of  the  world,  •worn  out  with  continual  trouble, 
seeking  only  a  security  against  evil  fortune,  as  I  had  no 
hope  of  good.  Even  my  wishes  of  worldly  success  were 
almost  dead  within  me.  I  came  hither  as  a  man  might 
come  to  a  tomb,  willing  to  lie  down  in  its  gloom  and  cold- 
ness, for  the  sake  of  its  peace  and  quiet.  There  was  but 
one  earthly  affection  in  my  breast,  and  it  had  grown 
calmer  since  my  youth ;  so  that  I  was  satisfied  to  bring 
Martha  to  be  my  sister,  in  our  new  abode.  We  are 
brother  and  sister,  nor  would  I  have  it  otherwise.  And 
in  this  peaceful  village  I  have  found  all  that  I  hoped  for, 
—  all  that  I  desire.  I  will  strive,  with  my  best  strength, 
for  the  spiritual  and  temporal  good  of  our  community. 
My  conscience  is  not  doubtful  in  this  matter.  I  am 
ready  to  receive  the  trust." 

"  Thou  hast  spoken  well,  son  Adam,"  said  the  Father. 
"  God  will  bless  thee  in  the  office  which  I  am  about  to 
resign." 

"  But  our  sister !  "  observed  the  elder  from  Harvard  ; 
"  hath  she  not  likewise  a  gift  to  declare  her  senti- 
ments ?  " 

Martha  started,  and  moved  her  lips,  as  if  she  would 
have  made  a  formal  reply  to  this  appeal.  But,  had  she 
attempted  it,  perhaps  the  old  recollections,  the  long- 
repressed  feelings  of  childhood,  youth,  and  womanhood, 


206  TWICE-TOLD    TALES. 

might  have  gushed  from  her  heart,  in  words  that  it  would 
have  been  profanation  to  utter  there. 

"Adam  has  spoken,"  said  she,  hurriedly;  "his  senti- 
ments are  likewise  mine." 

But  while  speaking  these  few  words,  Martha  grew  so 
pale,  that  she  looked  fitter  to  be  laid  in  her  coffin,  than  to 
s'and  in  the  presence  of  Father  Ephraim  and  the  elders  ; 
she  shuddered,  also,  as  if  there  were  something  aAvful 
or  horrible  in  her  situation  and  destiny.  It  required, 
indeed,  a  more  than  feminine  strength  of  nerve,  to  sus- 
tain the  fixed  observance  of  men  so  exalted  and  famous 
throughout  the  sect,  as  these  were.  They  had  overcome 
their  natural  sympathy  with  human  frailties  and  affec- 
tions. One,  when  he  joined  the  Society,  had  brought 
with  him  his  wife  and  children,  but  never,  from  that 
hour,  had  spoken  a  fond  word  to  the  former,  or  taken 
his  best-loved  child  upon  his  knee.  Another,  whose 
family  refused  to  follow  him,  had  been  enabled — such 
was  his  gift  of  holy  fortitude — to  leave  them  to  the 
mercy  of  the  world.  The  youngest  of  the  elders,  a  man 
of  about  fifty,  had  been  bred  from  infancy  in  a  Shaker  vil- 
lage, and  was  said  never  to  have  clasped  a  woman's  hand 
in  his  own,  and  to  have  no  conception  of  a  closer  tie  than 
the  cold  fraternal  one  of  the  sect.  Old  Father  Ephraim 
was  the  most  awful  character  of  all.  In  his  youth,  he 
had  been  a  dissolute  libertine,  but  was  converted  by 
Mother  Ann  herself,  and  had  partaken  of  the  wild  fanati- 
cism of  the  early  Shakers.  Tradition  whispered,  at  the 
firesides  of  the  village,  that  Mother  Ann  had  been  com- 
pelled to  sear  his  heart  of  flesh  with  a  red-hot  iron,  before 
it  could  be  purified  from  earthly  passions. 

However  that  might  be,  poor  Martha  had  a  woman's 
heart,  and  a  tender  one,  and  it  quailed  within  her  as  she 
looked  round  at  those  strange  old  men,  and  from  them 


THE    SHAKER    BUIDAL.  207 

to  the  calm  features  of  Adam  Colburn.  But  perceiving 
that  the  elders  eyed  her  doubtfully,  she  gasped  for  breath, 
and  again  spoke. 

"  With  what  strength  is  left  me  by  my  many  troubles," 
said  she,  "  I  am  ready  to  undertake  this  charge,  and  to  do 
my  best  in  it." 

"  My  children,  join  your  hands,"  said  Father  Ephraim. 

They  did  so.  The  elders  stood  up  around,  and  the 
Father  feebly  raised  himself  to  a  more  erect  position,  but 
continued  sitting  in  his  great  chair. 

"  I  have  bidden  you  to  join  your  hands,"  said  he,  "  not 
in  earthly  affection,  for  ye  have  cast  off  its  chains  forever  ; 
but  as  brother  and  sister  in  spiritual  love,  and  helpers  of 
one  another  in  your  allotted  task.  Teach  unto  others  the 
faith  which  ye  have  received.  Open  wide  your  gates,  — 
I  deliver  you  the  keys  thereof,  —  open  them  wide  to  all 
who  will  give  up  the  iniquities  of  the  world,  and  come 
hither  to  lead  lives  of  purity  and  peace.  Receive  the 
weary  ones,  who  have  known  the  vanity  of  earth,  —  re- 
ceive the  little  children,  that  they  may  never  learn  that 
miserable  lesson.  And  a  blessing  be  upon  your  labors  ; 
so  that  the  time  may  hasten  on,  when  the  mission  of 
Mother  Ann  shall  have  wrought  its  full  effect,  —  when 
children  shall  no  more  be  born  and  die,  and  the  last  sur- 
vivor of  mortal  race,  some  old  and  weary  man  like  me, 
shall  see  the  sun  go  down,  nevermore  to  rise  on  a  world 
of  sin  and  sorrow !  " 

The  aged  Father  sank  back  exhausted,  and  the  sur- 
rounding elders  deemed,  with  good  reason,  that  the  hour 
was  come,  when  the  new  heads  of  the  village  must  enter 
on  their  patriarchal  duties.  In  their  attention  to  Father 
Ephraim,  their  eyes  were  turned  from  Martha  Pierson, 
who  grew  paler  and  paler,  unnoticed  even  by  Adam 
Colburn.  He,  indeed,  had  withdrawn  his  hand  from 


208 


TWICE-TOLD    TALES. 


hers,  and  folded  his  arms  with  a  sense  of  satisfied  am- 
bition. But  pale  and  paler  grew  Martha  by  his  side,  till, 
like  a  corpse  in  its  burial-clothes,  she  sank  down  at  the 
feet  of  her  early  lover;  for,  after  many  trials  firmly 
borne,  her  heart  could  endure  the  weight  of  its  desolate 
agony  no  longer. 


NIGHT  SKETCHES. 

BENEATH  AN  UMBRELLA. 

LEASANT  is  a  rainy  winter's  day,  witliin  doors ! 
The  best  study  for  such  a  day,  or  the  best 
amusement,  —  call  it  which  you  will,  —  is  a 
book  of  travels,  describing  scenes  the  most  unlike  that 
sombre  one,  which  is  mistily  presented  through  the  win- 
dows. I  have  experienced,  that  fancy  is  then  most  suc- 
cessful in  imparting  distinct  shapes  and  vivid  colors  to 
the  objects  which  the  author  has  spread  upon  his  page, 
and  that  his  words  become  magic  spells  to  summon  up  a 
thousand  varied  pictures.  Strange  landscapes  glimmer 
through  the  familiar  walls  of  the  room,  and  outlandish 
figures  thrust  themselves  almost  within  the  sacred  pre- 
cincts of  the  hearth.  Small  as  my  chamber  is,  it  lias 
space  enough  to  contain  the  ocean-like  circumference 
of  an  Arabian  desert,  its  parched  sands  tracked  by 
the  long  line  of  a  caravan,  with  the  camels  patiently 
journeying  through  the  heavy  sunshine.  Though  my 
ceiling  be  not  lofty,  yet  I  can  pile  up  the  mountains  of 
Central  Asia  beneath  it,  till  their  summits  shine  far 
above  the  clouds  of  the  middle  atmosphere.  And,  with 
my  humble  means,  a  wealth  that  is  not  taxable,  I  can 
transport  hither  the  magnificent  merchandise  of  an  Ori- 


210  TWICE-TOLD    TALES. 

ental  bazaar,  and  call  a  crowd  of  purchasers  from  distant 
countries,  to  pay  a  fair  profit  for  the  precious  articles 
which  are  displayed  on  all  sides.  True  it  is,  however, 
that  amid  the  bustle  of  traffic,  or  whatever  else  may 
seem  to  be  going  on  around  me,  the  rain-drops  will  occa- 
sionally be  heard  to  patter  against  my  window-panes, 
which  look  forth  upon  one  of  the  quietest  streets  in  a 
New  England  town.  After  a  time,  too,  the  visions  vanish, 
and  will  not  appear  again  at  my  bidding.  Then,  it  being 
nightfall,  a  gloomy  sense  of  unreality  depresses  my  spir- 
its, and  impels  me  to  venture  out,  before  the  clock  shall 
strike  bedtime,  to  satisfy  myself  that  the  world  is  not 
entirely  made  up  of  such  shadowy  materials,  as  have 
busied  me  throughout  the  day.  A  dreamer  may  dwell  so 
long  among  fantasies,  that  the  things  without  him  will 
seem  as  unreal  as  those  within. 

When  eve  has  fairly  set  in,  therefore,  I  sally  forth, 
tightly  buttoning  my  shaggy  overcoat,  and  hoisting  my 
umbrella,  the  silken  dome  of  which  immediately  resounds 
with  the  heavy  drumming  of  the  invisible  rain-drops. 
Pausing  on  the  lowest  doorstep,  I  contrast  the  warmth 
and  cheerfulness  of  my  deserted  fireside  with  the  drear 
obscurity  and  chill  discomfort  into  which  I  am  about  to 
plunge.  Now  come  fearful  auguries,  innumerable  as  the 
drops  of  rain.  Did  not  my  manhood  cry  shame  upon  me, 
I  should  turn  back  within  doors,  resume  my  elbow-chair, 
my  slippers,  and  my  book,  pass  such  an  evening  of  slug- 
gish enjoyment  as  the  day  has  been,  and  go  to  bed  in- 
glorious. The  same  shivering  reluctance,  no  doubt,  has 
quelled,  for  a  moment,  the  adventurous  spirit  of  many  a 
traveller,  when  his  feet,  which  were  destined  to  meas- 
ure the  earth  around,  were  leaving  their  last  tracks  in 
the  home-paths. 

In  my  own  case,  poor  human  nature  may  be  allowed  a 


NIGHT    SKETCHES.  211 

few  misgivings.  I  look  upward,  and  discern  no  sky, 
not  even  an  unfathomable  void,  but  only  a  black,  impene- 
trable nothingness,  as  though  heaven  and  all  its  lights 
W3re  blotted  from  the  system  of  the  universe.  It  is  as 
if  nature  were  dead,  and  the  world  had  put  on  black,  and 
the  clouds  were  weeping  for  her.  With  their  tears  upon 
my  cheek,  I  turn  my  eyes  earthward,  but  find  little  con- 
solation here  below.  A  lamp  is  burning  dimly  at  the 
distant  corner,  and  throws  just  enough  of  light  along  the 
street,  to  show,  and  exaggerate  by  so  faintly  showing, 
the  perils  and  difficulties  which  beset  my  path.  Yonder 
dingily  white  remnant  of  a  huge  snow-bank,  —  which 
will  yet  cumber  the  sidewalk  till  the  latter  days  of 
March,  —  over  or  through  that  wintry  waste  must  I 
stride  onward.  Beyond,  lies  a  certain  Slough  of  De- 
spond, a  concoction  of  mud  and  liquid  filth,  ankle-deep, 
leg-deep,  neck-deep,  —  in  a  word,  of  unknown  bottom, — 
on  which  the  lamplight  does  not  even  glimmer,  but 
which  I  have  occasionally  watched,  in  the  gradual  growth 
of  its  horrors,  from  morn  till  nightfall.  Should  I  floun- 
der into  its  depths,  farewell  to  upper  earth  !  And  hark ! 
how  roughly  resounds  the  roaring  of  a  stream,  the  tur- 
bulent career  of  which  is  partially  reddened  by  the  gleam 
of  the  lamp,  but  elsewhere  brawls  noisily  through  the 
densest  gloom .  O,  should  I  be  swept  away  in  fording 
that  impetuous  and  unclean  torrent,  the  coroner  will 
have  a  job  with  an  unfortunate  gentleman,  who  would 
fain  end  his  troubles  anywhere  but  in  a  mud-puddle  ! 

Pshaw  !  I  will  linger  not  another  instant  at  arm's- 
length  from  these  dim  terrors,  which  grow  more  obscure- 
ly formidable,  the  longer  I  delay  to  grapple  with  them. 
Now  for  the  onset !  And  lo  !  with  little  damage,  save  a 
dash  of  rain  in  the  facs  and  breast,  a  splash  of  mud  high 
up  the  pantaloons,  and  the  left  boot  full  of  ice-cold  water, 


212  TWICE-TOLD    TALES. 

behold  rne  at  the  corner  of  the  street.  The  lamp  throws 
down  a  circle  of  red  light  around  me;  and  twinkling 
onward  from  corner  to  corner,  I  discern  other  beacons 
marshalling  my  way  to  a  brighter  scene.  But  this  is  a 
lonesome  and  dreary  spot.  The  tall  edifices  bid  gloomy 
defiance  to  the  storm,  with  their  blinds  all  closed,  even 
as  a  man  winks  when  he  faces  a  spattering  gust.  How 
loudly  tinkles  the  collected  rain  down  the  tin  spouts! 
The  puffs  of  wind  are  boisterous,  and  seem  to  assail  me 
from  various  quarters  at  once.  I  have  often  observed 
that  this  corner  is  a  haunt  and  loiteriug-place  for  those 
winds  which  have  no  work  to  do  upon  the  deep,  dashing 
ships  against  our  iron-bound  shores ;  nor  in  the  forest, 
tearing  up  the  sylvan  giants  with  half  a  rood  of  soil  at 
their  vast  roots.  Here  they  amuse  themselves  with  lesser 
freaks  of  mischief.  See,  at  this  moment,  how  they  assail 
yonder  poor  woman,  who  is.passing  just  within  the  verge 
of  the  lamplight !  One  blast  struggles  for  her  umbrella, 
and  turns  it  wrong  side  outward  ;  another  whisks  the 
cape  of  her  cloak  across  her  eyes ;  while  a  third  takes 
most  unwarrantable  liberties  with  the  lower  part  of  her 
attire.  Happily,  the  good  dame  is  no  gossamer,  but  a 
figure  of  rotundity  and  fleshly  substance ;  else  would 
these  aerial  tormentors  whirl  her  aloft,  like  a  witch  upon 
a  broomstick,  and  set  her  down,  doubtless,  in  the  filthi- 
est kennel  hereabout. 

From  hence  I  tread  upon  firm  pavements  into  the 
centre  of  the  town.  Here  there  is  almost  as  brilliant 
an  illumination  as  when  some  great  victory  has  been 
won,  either  on  the  battle-field  or  at  the  polls.  Two  rows 
of  shops,  with  windows  down  nearly  to  the  ground,  cast 
a  glow  from  side  to  side,  while  the  black  night  hangs 
overhead  like  a  canopy,  and  thus  keeps  the  splendor 
from  diffusing  itself  away.  The  wet  sidewalks  gleam 


NIGHT    SKETCHES.  213 

with  a  broad  sheet  of  red  light.  The  rain-drops  glitter, 
as  if  the  sky  were  pouring  down  rubies.  The  spouts 
gush  with  fire.  Methinks  the  scene  is  an  emblem  of 
the  deceptive  glare,  which  mortals  throw  around  their 
footsteps  in  the  moral  world,  thus  bedazzling  themselves, 
till  they  forget  the  impenetrable  obscurity  that  hems 
them  in,  and  that  can  be  dispelled  only  by  radiance 
from  above.  And  after  all,  it  is  a  cheerless  scene,  and 
cheerless  are  the  wanderers  in  it.  Here  comes  one  who 
has  so  long  been  familiar  with  tempestuous  weather  that 
he  takes  the  bluster  of  the  storm  for  a  friendly  greeting, 
as  if  it  should  say,  "How  fare  ye,  brother  ?  "  He  is  a 
retired  sea-captain,  wrapped  in  some  nameless  garment 
of  the  pea-jacket  order,  and  is  now  laying  his  course 
towards  the  Marine  Insurance  Office,  there  to  spin 
yarns  of  gale  and  shipwreck,  with  a  crew  of  old  sea- 
dogs  like  himself.  The  blast  will  put  in  its  word  among 
their  hoarse  voices,  and  be  understood  by  all  of  them. 
Next  I  meet  an  unhappy  slipshod  gentleman,  with  a 
cloak  flung  hastily  over  his  shoulders,  running  a  race 
with  boisterous  winds,  and  striving  to  glide  between  the 
drops  of  rain.  Some  domestic  emergency  or  other  has 
blown  this  miserable  man  from  his  warm  fireside  in  quest 
of  a  doctor  !  See  that  little  vagabond,  —  how  carelessly 
he  has  taken  his  stand  right  underneath  a  spout,  while 
staring  at  some  object  of  curiosity  in  a  shop-window ! 
Surely  the  rain  is  his  native  element ;  he  must  have 
fallen  with  it  from  the  clouds,  as  frogs  are  supposed 
to  do. 

Here  is  a  picture,  and  a  pretty  one.  A  young  man 
and  a  girl,  both  enveloped  in  cloaks,  and  huddled  be- 
neath the  scanty  protection  of  a  cotton  umbrella.  She 
wears  rubber  overshoes  ;  but  he  is  in  his  dancing-pumps ; 
and  they  are  on  their  way,  no  doubt,  to  some  cotillon- 


£14  TWICE-TOLD    TALES. 

party,  or  subscription-ball  at  a  dollar  a  head,  refresh- 
ments included.  Thus  they  struggle  against  the  gloomy 
tempest,  lured  onward  by  a  vision  of  festal  splendor. 
But,  ah !  a  most  lamentable  disaster.  Bewildered  by 
the  red,  blue,  and  yellow  meteors,  in  an  apothecary's 
window,  they  Lave  stepped  upon  a  slippery  remnant 
of  ice,  and  are  precipitated  into  a  confluence  of  swollen 
floods,  at  the  corner  of  two  streets.  Luckless  lovers  ! 
Were  it  my  nature  to  be  other  than  a  looker-on  in  life, 
I  would  attempt  your  rescue.  Since  that  may  not  be, 
I  vow,  should  you  be  drowned,  to  weave  such  a  pathetic 
story  of  your  fate,  as  shall  call  forth  tears  enough  to 
drown  you  both  anew.  Do  ye  touch  bottom,  my  young 
friends  ?  Yes ;  they  emerge  like  a  water-nymph  and  a 
river  deity,  and  paddle  hand  in  hand  out  of  the  depths 
of  the  dark  pool.  They  hurry  homeward,  dripping,  dis- 
consolate, abashed,  but  with  love  too  warm  to  be  chilled 
by  the  cold  water.  They  have  stood  a  test  which  proves 
too  strong  for  many.  Faithful,  though  over  head  and 
ears  in  trouble ! 

Onward  I  go,  deriving  a  sympathetic  joy  or  sorrow 
from  the  varied  aspect  of  mortal  affairs,  even  as  my 
figure  catches  a  gleam  from  the  lighted  windows,  or 
is  blackened  by  an  interval  of  darkness.  Not  that  mine 
is  altogether  a  chameleon  spirit,  with  no  hue  of  its  own. 
Now  I  pass  into  a  more  retired  street,  where  the  dwell- 
ings of  wealth  and  poverty  are  intermingled,  presenting  a 
range  of  strongly  contrasted  pictures.  Here,  too,  may 
be  found  the  golden  mean.  Through  yonder  casement 
I  discern  a  family  circle,  —  the  grandmother,  the  par- 
ents, and  the  children,  —  all  flickering,  shadow-like,  in 
the  glow  of  a  wood-fire.  -  Bluster,  fierce  blast,  and  beat, 
thou  wintry  rain,  against  the  window-panes!  Ye  can- 
not damp  the  enjoyment  of  that  fireside.  Surely  my  fate 


NIGHT    SKETCHES.  2iO 

is  hard,  that  I  should  be  wandering  homeless  here,  tak- 
ing to  my  bosom  night,  and  storm,  and  solitude,  instead 
of  wife  and  children.  Peace,  murmurer  !  Doubt  not 
that  darker  guests  are  sitting  round  the  hearth,  though 
the  warm  blaze  hides  all  but  blissful  images.  Well ; 
here  is  still  a  brighter  scene.  A  stately  mansion,  illu- 
minated for  a  ball,  with  cut-glass  chandeliers  and  ala- 
baster lamps  in  every  room,  and  sunny  landscapes  hang- 
ing round  the  walls.  See  !  a  coach  has  stopped,  whenca 
emerges  a  slender  beauty,  who,  canopied  by  two  um- 
brellas, glides  within  the  portal,  and  vanishes  amid 
lightsome  thrills  of  music.  Will  she  ever  feel  the  night  - 
wind  and  the  rain  ?  Perhaps,  —  perhaps  !  And  will 
Death  and  Sorrow  ever  enter  that  proud  mansion? 
As  surely  as  the  dancers  will  be  gay  within  its  halls 
to-night.  Such  thoughts  sadden,  yet  satisfy  my  heart ; 
for  they  teach  me  that  the  poor  man,  in  his  mean, 
weather-beaten  hovel,  without  a  fire  to  cheer  him,  may 
call  the  rich  his  brother,  brethren  by  Sorrow,  who  must 
be  an  inmate  of  both  their  households, — brethren  by 
Death,  who  will  lead  them  both  to  other  homes. 

Onward,  still  onward,  I  plunge  into  the  night.  Now 
have  I  reached  the  utmost  limits  of  the  town,  where  the 
last  lamp  struggles  feebly  with  the  darkness,  like  tli3 
farthest  star  that  stands  sentinel  on  the  borders  of  un- 
created space.  It  is  strange  what  sensations  of  sublimity 
may  spring  from  a  very  humble  source.  Such  are  sug- 
gested by  this  hollow  roar  of  a  subterranean  cataract, 
where  the  mighty  stream  of  a  kennel  precipitates  itself 
beneath  an  iron  grate,  and  is  seen  no  more  on  earth. 
Listen  awhile  to  its  voice  of  mystery  ;  and  fancy  will 
magnify  it,  till  you  start  and  smile  at  the  illusion.  And 
now  another  sound, — the  rumbling  of  wheels,  —  as  the 
mail-coach,  outward  bound,  rolls  heavily  off  the  pave- 


216  TWICE-TOLD    TALES. 

meuts,  and  splashes  through  the  mud  and  water  of  the 
road.  All  night  long,  the  poor  passengers  will  be  tossed 
to  and  fro  between  drowsy  watch  and  troubled  sleep,  and 
will  dream  of  their  own  quiet  beds,  and  awake  to  find 
themselves  still  jolting  onward.  Happier  my  lot,  who 
will  straightway  hie  me  to  my  familiar  room,  and  toast 
myself  comfortably  before  the  fire,  musing,  and  fitfully 
dozing,  and  fancying  a  strangeness  in  such  sights  as  all 
may  see.  But  first  let  me  gaze  at  this  solitary  figure, 
who  comes  hitherward  with  a  tin  lantern,  which  throws 
the  circular  pattern  of  its  punched  holes  on  the  ground 
about  him.  He  passes  fearlessly  into  the  unknown  gloom, 
whither  I  will  not  follow  him. 

This  figure  shall  supply  me  with  a  moral,  wherewith, 
for  lack  of  a  more  appropriate  one,  I  may  wind  up  my 
sketch.  He  fears  not  to  tread  the  dreary  path  before 
him,  because  his  lantern,  which  was  kindled  at  the  fire- 
side of  his  home,  will  light  him  back  to  that  same  fireside 
again.  And  thus  we,  night-wanderers  through  a  stormy 
and  dismal  world,  if  we  bear  the  lamp  of  Faith,  enkindled 
at  a  celestial  fire,  it  will  surely  lead  us  home  to  that 
Heaven  whence  its  radiance  was  borrowed. 


BNDICOTT  AND  THE  RED  CROSS. 


T  noon  of  an  autumnal  day,  more  than  two 
centuries  ago,  the  English  colors  were  displayed 

by  the  standard-bearer  of  the  Salem  trainband, 

hich  had  mustered  for  martial  exercise  under  the  orders 
of  John  Endicott.  It  was  a  period  when  the  religious 
exiles  were  accustomed  often  to  buckle  on  their  armor, 
.  and  practise  the  handling  of  their  weapons  of  war.  Since 
the  first  settlement  of  New  England,  its  prospects  had 
never  been  so  dismal.  The  dissensions  between  Charles 
the  Eirst  and  his  subjects  were  then,  and  for  several 
years  afterwards,  confined  to  the  floor  of  Parliament. 
The  measures  of  the  King  and  ministry  were  rendered 
more  tyranically  violent  by  an  opposition,  which  had  not 
yet  acquired  sufficient  confidence  in  its  own  strength  to 
resist  royal  injustice  with  the  sword.  The  bigoted  and 
haughty  primate,  Laud,  Archbishop  of  Canterbury,  con- 
trolled the  religious  affairs  of  the  realm,  and  was  conse- 
quently invested  with  powers  which  might  have  wrought 
the  utter  ruin  of  the  two  Puritan  colonies,  Plymouth  and 
Massachusetts.  There  is  evidence  on  record,  that  our 
forefathers  perceived  their  danger,  but  were  resolved  that 
their  infant  country  should  not  fall  without  a  struggle, 
even  beneath  the  giant  strength  of  the  King's  right  arm. 

Such  was  the  aspect  of  the  times,  when  the  folds  of 

VOL.  n.  10 


218  TWICE-TOLD    TALES. 

the  English  banner,  with  the  Red  Cross  in  its  field,  were 
flung  out  over  a  company  of  Puritans.  Their  leader,  the 
famous  Eudicott,  was  a  man  of  stern  and  resolute  coun- 
tenance, the  effect  of  which  was  heightened  by  a  grizzled 
beard  that  swept  the  upper  portion  of  his  breastplate. 
This  piece  of  armor  was  so  highly  polished,  that  the 
whole  surrounding  scene  had  its  image  in  the  glittering 
steel.  The  central  object  in  the  mirrored  picture  was 
an  edifice  of  humble  architecture,  with  neither  steeple 
nor  bell  to  proclaim  it  —  what  nevertheless  it  was  —  the 
house  of  prayer.  A  token  of  the  perils  of  the  wilder- 
ness was  seen  in  the  grim  head  of  a  wolf,  which  had  just 
been  slain  within  the  precincts. of  the  town,  and,  according 
to  the  regular  mode  of  claiming  the  bounty,  was  nailed 
on  the  porch  of  the  meeting-house.  The  blood  was  still 
plashing  on  the  doorstep.  There  happened  to  be  visible, 
at  the  same  noontide  hour,  so  many  other  characteristics 
of  the  times  and  manners  of  the  Puritans,  that  we  must 
endeavor  to  represent  them  in  a  sketch,  though  far  less 
vividly  than  they  were  reflected  in  the  polished  breast- 
plate of  John  Endicott. 

In  close  vicinity  to  the  sacred  edifice  appeared  that 
important  engine  of  Puritanic  authority,  the  whipping- 
post, with  the  soil  around  it  well  trodden  by  the  feet  of 
evil-doers,  who  had  there  been  disciplined.  At  one  cor- 
ner of  the  meeting-house  was  the  pillory,  and  at  the  other 
the  stocks ;  and,  by  a"  singular  good  fortune  for  our 
sketch,  the  head  of  an  Episcopalian  and  suspected  Cath- 
olic was  grotesquely  incased  in  the  former  machine ; 
while  a  fellow-criminal,  who  had  boisterously  quaffed  a 
health  to  the  King,  was  confined  by  the  legs  in  the  latter. 
Side  by  side,  on  the  meeting-house  steps,  stood  a  male 
and  a  female  figure.  The  man  was  a  tall,  lean,  haggard 
personification  of  fanaticism,  bearing  on  his  breast  this 


ENDICOTT    AND    THE    RED    CROSS.  219 

label,  —  A  WANTON  GOSPELLER,  —  which  betokened  that 
he  had  dared  to  give  interpretations  of  Holy  Writ  un- 
sanctioiied  by  the  infallible  judgment  of  the  civil  and 
religious  rulers.  His  aspect  showed  no  lack  of  zeal  to 
maintain  his  heterodoxies,  even  at  the  stake.  The  woman 
wore  a  cleft  stick  on  her  tongue,  in  appropriate  retribu- 
tion for  having  wagged  that  unruly  member  against  the 
elders  of  the  church ;  and  her  countenance  and  gestures 
gave  much  cause  to  apprehend,  that,  the  moment  the 
stick  should  be  removed,  a  repetition  of  the  offeucj 
would  demand  new  ingenuity  in  chastising  it. 

The  above-mentioned  individuals  had  been  sentenced 
to  undergo  their  various  modes  of  ignominy,  for  the 
space  of  one  hour  at  noonday.  But  among  the  crowd 
were  several  whose  punishment  would  be  life-long  ;  some, 
whose  ears  had  been  cropped,  like  those  of  puppy-dogs  ; 
others,  whose  cheeks  had  been  branded  with  the  initials 
of  their  misdemeanors ;  one,  with  his  nostrils  slit  and 
seared  ;  and  another,  with  a  halter  about  his  neck,  which 
he  was  forbidden  ever  to  take  off,  or  to  conceal  beneath 
his  garments.  Methinks  he  must  have  been  grievously 
tempted  to  affix  the  other  end  of  the  rope  to  some  con- 
venient beam  or  bough.  There  was  likewise  a  young 
woman,  with  no  mean  share  of  beauty,  whose  doom  it 
was  to  wear  the  letter  A  on  the  breast  of  her  gown,  in 
the  eyes  of  all  the  world  and  her  own  children.  And 
even  her  own  children  knew  what  that  initial  signified. 
Sporting  with  her  infamy,  the  lost  and  desperate  creature 
had  embroidered  the  fatal  token  in  scarlet  cloth,  witli 
golden  thread  and  the  nicest  art  of  needlework  ;  so  that 
the  capital  A  might  have  been  thought  to  mean  Admi- 
rable, or  anything  rather  than  Adulteress. 

Let  not  the  reader  argue,  from  any  of  these  evidences 
of  iniquity,  that  the  times  of  the  Puritans  were  more 


220  TWICE-TOLD    TALES. 

vicious  than  our  own,  when,  as  we  pass  along  the  very 
street  of  this  sketch,  we  discern  no  badge  of  infamy  on 
man  or  woman.  It  was  the  policy  of  our  ancestors  to 
search  out  even  the  most  secret  sins  and  expose  them 
to  shame,  without  fear  or  favor,  in  the  broadest  light  of 
the  noonday  sun.  Were  such  the  custom  now,  per- 
chance we  might  find  materials  for  a  no  less  piquant 
sketch  than  the  above. 

Except  the  malefactors  whom  we  have  described,  and 
the  diseased  or  infirm  persons,  the  whole  male  popula- 
tion of  the  town,  between  sixteen  years  and  sixty,  were 
seen  in  the  ranks  of  the  trainband.  A  few  stately  sav- 
ages, in  all  the  pomp  and  dignity  of  the  primeval  Indian, 
stood  gazing  at  the  spectacle.  Their  flint -headed  arrows 
were  but  childish  weapons,  compared  with  the  match- 
locks of  the  Puritans,  and  would  have  rattled  harmlessly 
against  the  steel  caps  and  hammered  iron  breastplates, 
which  enclosed  each  soldier  in  an  individual  fortress. 
Th3  valiant  John  Endicott  glanced  with  an  eye  of  pride 
at  his  sturdy  followers,  and  prepared  to  renew  the  mar- 
tial toils  of  the  day. 

"Come,  my  stout  hearts!"  quoth  hf,  drawing  his 
sword.  "Let  us  show  these  poor  heathen  that  we  can 
handle  our  weapons  like  men  of  might.  Well  for  them, 
if  they  put  us  not  to  prove  it  in  earnest !  " 

The  iron-breasted  company  straightened  their  line,  and 
each  man  drew  the  heavy  butt  of  his  matchlock  close  to 
his  left  foot,  thus  awaiting  the  orders  of  the  captain. 
But,  as  Endicott  glanced  right  and  left  along  the  front, 
he  discovered  a  personage  at  some  little  distance,  with 
whom  it  behooved  him  to  hold  a  parley.  It  was  an  eld- 
erly gentleman,  wearing  a  black  cloak  and  band,  and  a 
high-crowned  hat,  beneath  which  was  a  velvet  skullcap, 
the  whole  being  the  garb  of  a  Puritan  minister.  This 


ENDICOTT   AND    THE    RED   CROSS.  221 

reverend  person  bore  a  staff,  which  seemed  to  have  been 
recently  cut  in  the  forest,  and  his  shoes  were  bemired,  as 
if  be  had  been  travelling  on  foot  through  the  swamps  of 
the  wilderness.  His  aspect  was  perfectly  that  of  a  pil- 
grim, heightened  also  by  an  apostolic  dignity.  Just  as 
Endicott  perceived  him,  he  laid  aside  his  staff,  and 
stooped  to  drink  at  a  bubbling  fountain,  which  gushed 
into  the  sunshine  about  a  score  of  yards  from  the  corner 
of  the  meeting-house.  But,  ere  the  good  man  drank,  he 
turned  his  face  heavenward  in  thankfulness,  and  then, 
holding  back  his  gray  beard  with  one  hand,  he  scooped 
up  his  simple  draught  in  the  hollow  of  the  other. 

"  What,  ho !  good  Mr.  Williams,"  shouted  Endicott. 
"  You  are  welcome  back  again  to  our  town  of  peace. 
How  does  our  worthy  Governor  Wiuthrop  ?  And  what 
news  from  Boston  ?  " 

"  The  Governor  hath  his  health,  worshipful  Sir,"  an- 
swered Roger  Williams,  now  resuming  his  staff,  and 
drawing  near.  "And,  for  the  news,  here  is  a  letter, 
which,  knowing  I  was  to  travel  hitherward  to-day,  his 
Excellency  committed  to  my  charge.  Belike  it  contains 
tidings  of  much  import ;  for  "a  ship  arrived  yesterday 
from  England." 

Mr.  Williams,  the  minister  of  Salem,  and  of  course 
known  to  all  the  spectators,  had  now  reached  the  spot 
where  Endicott  was  standing  under  the  banner  of  his 
company,  and  put  the  Governor's  epistle  into  his  hand. 
The  broad  seal  was  impressed  with  Winthrop's  coat  of 
arms.  Endicott  hastily  unclosed  the  letter,  and  began 
to  read ;  while,  as  his  eye  passed  down  the  page,  a 
wrathful  change  came  over  his  manly  countenance.  The 
blood  glowed  through  it,  till  it  seemed  to  be  kindling 
with  an  internal  heat ;  nor  was  it  unnatural  to  suppose 
that  his  breastplate  would  likewise  become  red-hot, 


TWICE-TOLD    TALES. 


riving  at  the  conclusion,  he  shook  the  letter  fiercely  in 
his  hand,  so  that  it  rustled  as  loud  as  the  flag  above  his 
head. 

"  Black  tidings  these,  Mr.  Williams,"  said  he ;  "  blacker 
never  came  to  New  England.  Doubtless  you  know  their 
purport  ?  " 

"  Yea,  truly,"  replied  Roger  Williams  ;  "  for  the  Gov- 
ernor consulted,  respecting  this  matter,  with  my  brethren 
in  the  ministry  at  Boston  ;  and  my  opinion  was  likewise 
asked.  And  his  Excellency  entreats  you  by  me,  that  the 
news  be  not  suddenly  noised  abroad,  lest  the  people  be 
stirred  up  unto  some  outbreak,  and  thereby  give  the 
King  and  the  Archbishop  a  handle  against  us." 

"  The  Governor  is  a  wise  man,  —  a  wise  man,  and  a 
meek  and  moderate,"  said  Endicott,  setting  his  teeth 
grimly.  "Nevertheless,  I  must  do  according  to  my  own 
best  judgment.  There  is  neither  man,  woman,  nor  child 
in  New  England  but  has  a  concern  as  dear  as  life  in 
these  tidings;  and  if  John  Eudicott's  voice  be  loud 
jenough,  man,  woman,  and  child  shall  hear  them.  Sol- 
diers, wheel  into  a  hollow  square  !  Ho,  good  people ! 
Here  are  news  for  one  and  all  of  you." 

The  soldiers  closed  in  around  their  captain  ;  and  he 
and  Roger  Williams  stood  together  under  the  banner  of 
the  Red  Cross ;  while  the  women  and  the  aged  men 
pressed  forward,  and  the  mothers  held  up  their  children 
to  look  Endicott  in  the  face.  A  few  taps  of  the  drum 
gave  signal  for  silence  and  attention. 

"  Fellow  -  soldiers,  —  fellow -exiles,"  began  Endicott, 
speaking  under  strong  excitement,  yet  powerfully  re- 
straining it,  "  wherefore  did  ye  leave  your  native  coun- 
try ?  Wherefore,  I  say,  have  we  left  the  green  and  fertile 
fields,  the  cottages,  or,  perchance,  the  old  gray  halls,  where 


ENDICOTT   AND   THE    RED   CROSS.  223 

we  were  born  and  bred,  the  churchyards  where  our  fore- 
fathers lie  buried  ?  Wherefore  have  we  come  hither  to 
set  up  our  own  tombstones  in  a  wilderness  ?  A  howling 
wilderness  it  is  I  The  wolf  and  the  bear  meet  us  within 
halloo  of  our  dwellings.  The  savage  lieth  in  wait  for  us 
in  the  dismal  shadow  of  the  woods.  The  stubborn  roots 
of  the  trees  break  our  ploughshares,  when  we  would  till 
the  earth.  Our  children  cry  for  bread,  and  we  must  dig 
in  the  sands  of  the  sea-shore  to  satisfy  them.  Wherefore, 
I  say  again,  have  we  sought  this  country  of  a  rugged  soil 
and  wintry  sky  ?  Was  it  not  for  the  enjoyment  of  our 
civil  rights  ?  Was  it  not  for  liberty  to  worship  God  ac- 
cording to  our  conscience  ?  " 

"  Call  you  this  liberty  of  conscience  ?  "  interrupted  a 
voice  on  the  steps  of  the  meeting-house. 

It  was  the  Wanton  Gospeller.     A  sad  and  quiet  smile 

flitted  across  the  mild  visage  of  Roger  Williams.     But 

Endicott,  in  the  excitement  of  the  moment,  shook  his 

"sword  wrathfully  at  the  culprit, — -an  ominous  gesture 

from  a  man  like  him. 

"  What  hast  thou  to  do  with  conscience,  thou  knave  ?  " 
cried  he.  "  I  said  liberty  to  worship  God,  not  license  to 
profane  and  ridicule  him.  Break  not  in  upon  my  speech  ; 
or  I  will  lay  thee  neck  and  heels  till  this  time  to-morrow  \ 
llsarken  to  me,  friends,  nor  heed  that  accursed  rhapso- 
dist.  As  I  was  saying,  we  have  sacrificed  all  things,  and 
have  come  to  a  land  wnereof  the  old  world  hath  scarcely 
heard,  that  we  might  make  a  new  world  unto  ourselves, 
and  painfully  seek  a  path  from  hence  to  heaven.  But 
what  think  ye  now  ?  This  son  of  a  Scotch  tyrant,  —  this 
grandson  of  a  Papistical,  and  adulterous  Scotchwoman, 
whose  death  proved  that  a  golden  crown  doth  not  always 
save  an  anointed  head  from  the  block  —  " 

"  Nay,  brother,  nay,"  interposed  Mr.  Williams  ;  "thy 


22<i  TWICE-TOLD    TALES. 

words  are  not  meet  for  a  secret  chamber,  far  less  for  a 
public  street." 

"  Hold  thy  peace,  Roger  Williams  !  "  answered  Endi- 
cott,  imperiously.  "  My  spirit  is  wiser  than  thine,  for 
the  business  now  in  hand.  I  tell  ye,  fellow-exiles,  that 
Charles  of  England,  and  Laud,  our  bitterest  persecutor, 
arch-priest  of  Canterbury,  are  resolute  to  pursue  us  even 
hither.  They  are  taking  counsel,  saith  this  letter,  to  send 
over  a  governor-general,  in  whose  breast  shall  be  depos- 
ited all  the  law  and  equity  of  the  land.  They  are  minded, 
also,  to  establish  the  idolatrous  forms  of  English  Episco- 
pacy ;  so  that,  when  Laud  shall  kiss  the  Pope's  toe,  as 
cardinal  of  Rome,  he  may  deliver  New  England,  bound 
hand  and  foot,  into  the  power  of  his  master  !  " 

A  deep  groan  from  the  auditors  —  a  sound  of  wrath, 
as  well  as  tear  and  sorrow  —  responded  to  this  intelli- 
gence. 

"  Look  ye  to  it,  brethren,"  resumed  Endicott,  with 
increasing  energy.  "If  this  King  and  this  arch-prelate 
have  their  will,  we  shall  briefly  behold  a  cross  on  the 
spire  of  this  tabernacle  which  we  have  builded,  and  a 
high  altar  within  its  walls,  with  wax  tapers  burning  round 
it  at  noonday.  We  shall  hear  the  sacring  bell,  and  the 
voices  of  the  Romish  priests  saying  the  mass.  But  think 
ye,  Christian  men,  that  these  abominations  may  be  suffered 
without  a  sword  drawn  ?  without  a  shot  fired  ?  without 
blood  spilt,  yea,  on  the  very  stairs  of  the  pulpit  ?  No, 
—  be  ye  strong  of  hand,  and  stout  of  heart !  Here  we 
stand  on  our  own  soil,  which  we  have  bought  with  our 
goods,  which  we  have  won  with  our  swords,  which  we 
have  cleared  with  our  axes,  which  we  have  tilled  with  the 
sweat  of  our  brows,  which  we  have  sanctified  with  our 
prayers  to  the  God  that  brought  us  hither !  Who  shall 
enslave  us  here  ?  What  have  we  to  do  with  this  mitred 


ENDICOTT    AND    THE    RED    CROSS.  225 

prelate,  —  with  this  crowned  King?  What  have  we  to 
do  with  England  ?  " 

Endicott  gazed  round  at  the  excited  countenances  of 
the  people,  now  full  of  his  own  spirit,  and  then  turned 
suddenly  to  the  standard-bearer,  who  stood  close  behind 
him. 

"  Officer,  lower  your  banner  !  "  said  he. 

The  officer  obeyed ;  and,  brandishing  his  sword,  Eu- 
dicott  thrust  it  through  the  cloth,  and,  with  his  left  hand, 
rent  the  Red  Cross  completely  out  of  the  banner.  He  then 
waved  the  tattered  ensign  above  his  head. 

"  Sacrilegious  wretch  !  "  cried  the  High-Churchman  ra- 
the pillory,  unable  longer  to  restrain  himself;  "  thou 
hast  rejected  the  symbol  of  our  holy  religion  !  " 

"  Treason,  treason  !  "  roared  the  royalist  in  the  stocks. 
"He  hath  defaced  tli3  King's  banner  !  " 

"  Before  God  and  man,  I  will  avouch  the  deed,"  an- 
swerd  Endicott.  "Beat  a  flourish,  drummer!  shout, 
soldiers  and  people  !  in  honor  of  the  ensign  of  New  Eng- 
land. Neither  Pope  nor  Tyrant  hath  part  in  it  now  !  " 

With  a  cry  of  triumph,  the  people  gave  their  sanction 
to  one  of  the  boldest  exploits  which  our  history  records. 
And,  forever  honored  be  the  name  of  Endicott  !  We 
look  back  through  the  mist  of  ages,  and  recognize,  in  the 
rending  of  the  Red  Cross  from  New  England's  banner, 
the  first  omen  of  that  deliverance  which  our  fathers  con- 
summated, after  the  bones  of  the  stern  Puritan  had  lain 
more  than  a  century  in  the  dust. 


10* 


THE  LILY'S  QUEST. 

AN"  APOLOGUE. 

|Vv*O  lovers,  once  upon  a  time,  bad  planned  a  little 
summer-house,  in  the  form  of  an  antique  temple, 

which  it  was  their  purpose  to  consecrate  to  all 

manner  of  refined  and  innocent  enjoyments.  There  they 
would  hold  pleasant  intercourse  with  one  another,  and 
the  circle  of  their  familiar  friends  ;  there  they  would  give 
festivals  of  delicious  fruit ;  there  they  would  hear  light- 
some music,  intermingled  with  the  strains  of  pathos 
which  make  joy  more  sweet;  there  they  would  read 
poetry  and  fiction,  and  permit  their  own  minds  to  flit 
away  in  daydreams  and  romance ;  there,  in  short,  —  for 
why  should  we  shape  out  the  vague  sunshine  of  their 
hopes?  —  there  all  pure  delights  were  to  cluster  like 
roses  among  the  pillars  of  the  edifice,  and  blossom  ever 
new  and  spontaneously.  So,  one  breezy  and  cloudless 
afternoon,  Adam  Forrester  and  Lilias  Fay  set  out  upon  a 
ramble  over  the  wide  estate  which  they  were  to  possess 
together,  seeking  a  proper  site  for  their  Temple  of  Hap- 
piness. They  were  themselves  a  fair  and  happy  spectacle, 
fit  priest  and  priestess  for  such  a  shrine;  although,  mak- 
ing poetry  of  the  pretty  name  of  Lilias,  Adam  Forrester 
was  wont  to  call  her  LILY,  because  her  form  was  as 
fragile,  and  her  cheek  almost  as  pale. 


THE    LILY'S    QUEST.  2:27 

As  they  passed,  hand  in  hand,  down  the  avenue  of 
drooping  elms,  that  led  from  the  portal  of  Lilias  Fay's 
paternal  mansion,  they  seemed  to  glance  like  winged 
creatures  through  the  strips  of  sunshine,  and  to  scatter 
brightness  where  the  deep  shadows  fell.  But,  setting 
forth  at  the  same  time  with  this  youthful  pair,  there  was 
a  dismal  figure,  wrapped  in  a  black  velvet  cloak  that 
might  have  been  made  of  a  coffin  pall,  and  with  a  sombre 
hat,  «such  as  mourners  wear,  drooping  its  broad  brim 
over  his  heavy  brows.  Glancing  behind  them,  the  lovers 
well  knew  who  it  was  that  followed,  but  wished  from 
their  hearts  that  he  had  been  elsewhere,  as  being  a  com- 
panion so  strangely  unsuited  to  their  joyous  errand.  It 
was  a  near  relative  of  Lilias  Fay,  an  old  man  by  the  name 
of  Walter  Gascoigne,  wrho  had  long  labored  under  the 
burden  of  a  melancholy  spirit,  which  was  sometimes  mad- 
dened into  absolute  insanity,  and  always  had  a  tinge  of  it. 
What  a  contrast  between  the  young  pilgrims  of  bliss  and 
their  unbidden  associate  !  They  looked  as  if  moulded  of 
Heaven's  sunshine,  and  he  of  earth's  gloomiest  shade ; 
they  flitted  along  like  Hope  and  Joy,  roaming  hand  in 
hand  through  life;  while  his  darksome  figure  stalked 
behind,  a  type  of  all  the  woful  influences  which  life  could 
fling  upon  them.  But  the  three  had  not  gone  far,  when 
they  reached  a  spot  that  pleased  the  gentle  Lily,  and  she 
paused. 

"  What  sweeter  place  shall  we  find  than  this  ?  "  said 
she.  "  Why  should  we  seek  farther  for  the  site  of  our 
Temple  ?  " 

It  was  indeed  a  delightful  spot  of  earth,  though  undis- 
tinguished by  any  very  prominent  beauties,  being  merely 
a  nook  in  the  shelter  of  a  hill,  with  the  prospect  of  a 
distant  lake  in  one  direction,  and  of  a  church-spire  in 
another.  There  were  vistas  and  pathways,  leading  on- 


228  TWICE-TOLD    TALES. 

ward  and  onward  into  the  green  woodlands,  and  vanishing 
away  in  the  glimmering  shade.  The  Temple,  if  erected 
here,  would  look  towards  the  west :  so  that  the  lovers 
could  shape  all  sorts  of  magnificent  dreams  out  of  the  pur- 
ple, violet,  and  gold  of  the  sunset  sky ;  and  few  of  their  an- 
ticipated pleasures  were  dearer  than  this  sport  of  fantasy. 

"Yes,"  said  Adam  Forrester,  "we  might  seek  all  day, 
and  find  no  lovelier  spot.  We  will  build  our  Temple 
here." 

But  their  sad  old  companion,  who  had  taken  his  stand 
on  the  very  site  which  they  proposed  to  cover  with  a 
marble  floor,  shook  his  head  and  frowned ;  and  the  young 
man  and  the  Lily  deemed  it  almost  enough  to  blight  the 
spot,  and  desecrate  it  for  their  airy  Temple,  that  his  dis- 
mal figure  had  thrown  its  shadow  there.  He  pointed  to 
some  scattered  stones,  the  remnants  of  a  former  struc- 
ture, and  to  flowers  such  as  young  girls  delight  to  nurse 
in  their  gardens,  but  which  had  now  relapsed  into  the 
wild  simplicity  of  nature. 

"  Not  here  !  "  cried  old  Walter  Gascpigne.  "  Here, 
long  ago,  other  mortals  built  their  Temple  of  Happiness. 
Seek  another  site  for  yours  !  " 

"  What !  "  exclaimed  Lilias  Fay.  "  Have  any  ever 
planned  such  a  Temple,  save  ourselves?" 

"  Poor  child  !  "  said  her  gloomy  kinsman.  "  In  one 
shape  or  other,  every  mortal  has  dreamed  your  dream. 

Then  he  told  the  lovers,  how  —  not,  indeed,  an  antique 
Temple  —  but  a  dwelling  had  once  stood  there,  and  that 
a  dark-clad  guest  had  dwelt  among  its  inmates,  sitting 
forever  at  the  fireside,  and  poisoning  all  their  household 
mirth.  Under  this  type,  Adam  Forrester  and  Lilias  saw 
that  the  old  man  spake  of  Sorrow.  He  told  of  nothing 
that  might  not  be  recorded  in  the  history  of  almost  every 
household;  and  yet  his  hearers  felt  as  if  no  sunshine 


THE    LILY'S    QUEST.  229 

ought  to  fall  upon  a  spot  where  human  grief  had  left  so 
deep  a  stain;  or,  at  least,  that  no  joyous  Temple  should 
be  built  there. 

"  This  is  very  sad,"  said  the  Lily,  sighing. 

"  Well,  there  are  lovelier  spots  than  this,"  said  Adam 
Forrester,  soothingly,  —  "spots  which  sorrow  has  not 
blighted." 

So  they  hastened  away,  and  the  melancholy  Gascoigne 
followed  them,  looking  as  if  he  had  gathered  up  all  the 
gloom  of  the  deserted  spot,  and  was  bearing  it  as  a  bur- 
den of  inestimable  treasure.  But  still  they  rambled  on, 
and  soon  found  themselves  in  a  rocky  dell,  through  the 
midst  of  which  ran  a  streamlet,  with  ripple,  and.  foam, 
and  a  continual  voice  of  inarticulate  joy.  It  was  a  wild 
retreat,  walled  on  either  side  with  gray  precipices,  which 
would  have  frowned  somewhat  too  sternly,  had  not  a 
profusion  of  green  shrubbery  rooted  itself  into  their  crev- 
ices, and  wreathed  gladsome  foliage  around  their  solemn 
brows.  But  the  chief  joy  of  the  dell  was  in  the  little 
stream,  which  seemed  like  the  presence  of  a  blissful  child, 
with  nothing  earthly  to  do  save  to  babble  merrily  and 
disport  itself,  and  make  every  living  soul  its  playfellow, 
and  throw  the  sunny  gleams  of  its  spirit  upon  all. 

"  Here,  here  is  the  spot !  "  cried  the  two  lovers  with 
one  voice,  as  they  reached  a  level  space  on  the  brink  of  a 
small  cascade.  "  This  glen  was  made  on  purpose  for  our 
Temple  !  " 

"  And  the  glad  song  of  the  brook  will  be  always  in  our 
ears,"  said  Lilias  Fay. 

"  And  its  long  melody  shall  sing  the  bliss  of  our  life- 
time," said  Adam  Forrester. 

"  Ye  must  build  no  Temple  here  !  "  murmured  their 
dismal  companion. 

And  there  again  was  the  old  lunatic,  standing  just  on 


230  TWICE-TOLD   TALES. 

the  spot  where  they  meant  to  rear  their  lightsome  dome, 
and  looking  like  the  embodied  symbol  of  some  great  woo, 
that,  in  forgotten  days,  had  happened  there.  And,  alas  ! 
there  had  been  woe,  nor  that  alone.  A  young  man,  more 
than  a  hundred  years  before,  had  lured  hither  a  girl  that 
loved  him,  and  on  this  spot  had  murdered  her,  and  washed 
his  bloody  hands  in  the  stream  Vhich  sung  so  merrily. 
And  ever  since,  the  victim's  death-shrieks  were  often 
heard  to  echo  between  the  cliffs. 

"  And  see  !  "  cried  old  Gascoigne,  "  is  the  stream  yet 
pure  from  the  stain  of  the  murderer's  hands  ?  " 

"  Methiiiks  it  has  a  tinge  of  blood,"  faintly  answered 
the  Lily  ;  and  being  as  slight  as  the  gossamer,  she  trem- 
bled and  clung  to  her  lover's  arm,  whispering,  "  let  us 
flee  from  this  dreadful  vale  !  " 

"  Come,  then,"  said  Adam  Forrester,  as  cheerily  as  he 
could;  "  we  shall  soon  find  a  happier  spot." 

They  set  forth  again,  young  Pilgrims  on  that  quest 
which  millions  —  which  every  child  of  Earth  —  has  tried 
in.  turn.  And  were  the  Lily  and  her  lover  to  be  more 
fortunate  than  all  those  millions  ?  Tor  a  long  time,  it 
seemed  not  so.  The  dismal  shape  of  the  old  lunatic  still 
glided  behind  them  ;  and  for  every  spot  that  looked 
lovely  in  their  eyes,  he  had  some  legend  of  human  wrong 
or  suffering,  so  miserably  sad,  that  his  auditors  could 
never  afterwards  connect  the  idea  of  joy  with  the  place 
where  it  had  happened.  Here,  a  heart-broken  woman, 
kneeling  to  her  child,  had  been  spurned  from  his  feet ; 
here,  a  desolate  old  creature  had  prayed  to  the  Evil  One, 
and  had  received  a  fiendish  malignity  of  soul,  in  answer 
to  her  prayer ;  here,  a  new-born  infant,  sweet  blossom  of 
life,  had  been  found  dead,  with  the  impress  of  its  moth- 
er's fingers  round  its  throat ;  and  here,  under  a  shattered 
oak,  two  lovers  had  been  stricken  by  lightning,  and  fell 


THE    LILY'S    QUEST.  231 

blackened  corpses  in  each  other's  arms.  The  dreary 
Gascoigne  had  a  gift  to  know  whatever  evil  and  lamenta- 
ble thing  had  stained  the  bosom  of  Mother  Earth ;  and 
when  his  funereal  voice  had  told  the  tale,  it  appeared  like 
a  prophecy  of  future  woe,  as  well  as  a  tradition  of  the 
past.  And  now,  by  their  sad  demeanor,  you  would 
have  fancied  that  the  pilgrim  lovers  were  seeking,  not  a 
temple  of  earthly  joy,  but  a  tomb  for  themselves  and 
their  posterity. 

"  Where  in  this  world,"  exclaimed  Adam  Forrester, 
despondiugly,  "shall  we  build  our  Temple  of  Happi- 
ness ?  " 

"  Where  in  this  world,  indeed  !  "  repeated  Lilias  Fay ; 
and  being  faint  and  weary,  the  more  so  by  the  heaviness 
of  her  heart,  the  Lily  drooped  her  head  and  sat  down  on 
the  summit  of  a  knoll,  repeating,  "  Where  in  this  world 
shall  we  build  our  Temple  ?  " 

"  Ah !  have  you  already  asked  yourselves  that  ques- 
tion ?  "  said  their  companion,  his  shaded  features  grow- 
ing even  gloomier  with  the  smile  that  dwelt  on  them  ; 
"  yet  there  is  a  place,  even  in  this  world,  where  ye  may 
build  it." 

While  the  old  man  spoke,  Adam  Forrester  and  Lilias 
had  carelessly  thrown  their  eyes  around,  and  perceived 
that  the  spot  where  they  had  chanced  to  pause  pos- 
sessed a  quiet  charm,  which  was  well  enough  adapted  to 
their  present  mood  of  mind.  It  was  a  small  rise  of 
ground,  with  a  certain  regularity  of  shape,  that  had  per- 
haps been  bestowed  by  art ;  and  a  group  of  trees,  which 
almost  surrounded  it,  threw  their  pensive  shadows  across 
and  far  beyond,  although  some  softened  glory  of  the 
sunshine  found  its  way  there.  The  ancestral  mansion, 
wherein  the  lovers  would  dwell  together,  appeared  on 
one  side,  and  the  ivied  church,  where  they  were  to  wor- 


232  TWICE-TOLD    TALES. 

ship,  on  another.  Happening  to  cast  their  eyes  on  the 
ground,  they  smiled,  yet  with  a  sense  of  wonder,  to  see 
that  a  pale  lily  was  growing  at  their  feet. 

"  We  will  build  our  Temple  here,"  said  they,  simulta- 
neously, and  with  an  indescribable  conviction,  that  they 
had  at  last  found  the  very  spot. 

Yet,  while  they  uttered  this  exclamation,  the  young 
man  and  the  Lily  turned  an  apprehensive  glance  at  their 
dreary  associate,  deeming  it  hardly  possible,  that  some 
tale  of  earthly  affliction  should  not  make  those  precincts 
loathsome,  as  in  every  former  case.  The  old  man  stood 
just  behind  them,  so  as  to  form  the  chief  figure  in  the 
group,  with  his  sable  cloak  muffling  the  lower  part  of 
his  visage,  and  his  sombre  hat  overshadowing  his  brows. 
But  he  gave  no  word  of  dissent  from  their  purpose  ; 
and  an  inscrutable  smile  was  accepted  by  the  lovers 
as  a  token  that  here  had  been  no  footprint  of  guilt 
or  sorrow,  to  desecrate  the  site  of  their  Temple  of  Hap- 
piness. 

In  a  little  time  longer,  while  summer  was  still  in  its 
prime,  the  fairy  structure  of  the  Temple  arose  on  the 
summit  of  the  knoll,  amid  the  solemn  shadows  of  the 
trees,  yet  often  gladdened  with  bright  sunshine.  It  was 
built  of  white  marble,  with  slender  and  graceful  pillars, 
supporting  a  vaulted  dome ;  and  beneath  the  centre  of 
this  dome,  upon  a  pedestal,  was  a  slab  of  dark-veined 
marble,  on  which  books  and  music  might  be  strewn. 
But  there  was  a  fantasy  among  the  people  of  the  neigh- 
borhood, that  the  edifice  was  planned  after  an  ancient 
mausoleum,  and  was  intended  for  a  tomb,  and  that  the 
central  slab  of  dark-veined  marble  was  to  be  inscribed 
with  the  names  of  buried  ones.  They  doubted,  too, 
whether  the  form  of  Lilias  Fay  could  appertain  to  a 
creature  of  this  earth,  being  so  very  delicate,  and  grow- 


THE    LILY'S    QUEST.  233 

ing  every  day  more  fragile,  so  that  she  looked  as  if  the 
summer  breeze  should  snatch  her  up,  and  waft  her  heav- 
enward. But  still  she  watched  the  daily  growth  of  the 
Temple  ;  and  so  did  old  Walter  Gascoigne,  who  now 
made  that  spot  his  continual  haunt,  leaning  whole  hours 
together  on  his  staff,  and  giving  as  deep  attention  to  the 
work  as  though  it  had  been  indeed  a  tomb.  In  due  time 
it  was  finished,  and  a  day  appointed  for  a  simple  rite  of 
dedication. 

On  the  preceding  evening,  after  Adam  Forrester  had 
taken  leave  of  his  mistress,  he  looked  back  towards  the 
portal  of  her  dwelling,  and  felt  a  strange  thrill  of  fear ; 
for  he  imagined  that,  as  the  setting  sunbeams  faded  from 
her  figure,  she  was  exhaling  away,  and  that  something  of 
her  ethereal  substance  was  withdrawn,  with  each  lessen- 
ing gleam  of  light.  With  his  farewell  glance,  a  shadow 
had  fallen  over  the  portal,  and  Lilias  was  invisible.  His 
foreboding  spirit  deemed  it  an  omen  at  the  time ;  and  so 
it  proved ;  for  the  sweet  earthly  form,  by  which  the  Lily 
had  been  manifested  to  the  world,  was  found  lifeless,  the 
next  morning,  hi  the  Temple,  with  her  head  resting  on 
her  arms,  which  were  folded  upon  the  slab  of  dark-veined 
marble.  The  chill  winds  of  the  earth  had  long  since 
breathed  a  blight  into  this  beautiful  flower,  so  that  a 
loving  hand  had  now  transplanted  it,  to  blossom  brightly 
in  the  garden  of  Paradise. 

But,  alas  for  the  Temple  of  Happiness !  In  his  unut- 
terable grief,  Adam  Forrester  had  no  purpose  more  at 
heart  than  to  convert  this  Temple  of  many  delightful 
hopes  into  a  tomb,  and  bury  his  dead  mistress  there. 
And  lo  !  a  wonder !  Digging  a  grave  beneath  the  Tem- 
ple's marble  floor,  the  sexton  found  no  virgin  earth,  such  ' 
as  was  meet  to  receive  the  maiden's  dust,  but  an  ancient 
sepulchre,  in  which  were  treasured  up  the  bones  of  gen- 


234  TWICE-TOLD    TALES. 

erations  that  had  died  long  ago.  Among  those  forgotten 
ancestors  was  the  Lily  to  be  laid.  And  when  the  funeral 
procession  brought  Lilias  thither  in  her  coffin,  they  beheld 
old  Walter  Gascoigne  standing  beneath  the  dome  of  the 
Temple,  with  his  cloak  of  pall,  and  face  of  darkest  gloom  ; 
and  wherever  that  figure  might  take  its  stand,  the  spot 
would  seem  a  sepulchre.  He  watched  the  mourners  as 
they  lowered  the  coffin,  down. 

"  And  so,"  said  he  to  Adam  Forrester,  with  the  strange 
smile  in  which  his  insanity  was  wont  to  gleam  forth,  "you 
have  found  no  better  foundation  for  your  happiness  than 
on  a  grave  !  " 

But  as  the  Shadow  of  Affliction  spoke,  a  vision  of 
Hope  and  Joy  had  its  birth  in  Adam's  mind,  even  from 
the  old  man's  taunting  words ;  for  then  he  knew  what 
was  betokened  by  the  parable  in  which  the  Lily  and  him- 
self had  acted ;  and  the  mystery  of  Life  and  Death  was 
opened  to  him. 

"Joy!  joy!"  he  cried,  throwing  his  arms  towards 
Heaven,  "on  a  grave  be  the  site  of  our  Temple;  and 
now  our  happiness  is  for  Eternity ! " 

With  those  words,  a  ray  of  sunshine  broke  through 
the  dismal  sky,  and  glimmered  down  into  the  sepulchre; 
while,  at  the  same  moment,  the  shape  of  old  Walter 
Gascoigne  stalked  drearily  away,  because  his  glooin, 
symbolic  of  all  earthly  sorrow,  might  no  longer  abide 
there,  now  that  the  darkest  riddle  of  humanity  was  read. 


FOOTPRINTS   ON  THE   SEA-SHORE. 


T  must  be  a  spirit  much  unlike  my  own,  which 
can  keep  itself  in  health  and  vigor  without 
sometimes  stealing  from  the  sultry  sunshine  of 
the  world,  to  plunge  into  the  cool  bath  of  solitude.  At 
intervals,  and  not  infrequent  ones,  the  forest  and  the 
ocean  summon  me  —  one  with  the  roar  of  its  waves,  the 
other  with  the  murmur  of  its  boughs  —  forth  from  the 
haunts  of  men.  But  I  must  wander  many  a  mile,  ere  I 
could  stand  beneath  the  shadow  of  even  one  primeval 
tree,  much  less  be  lost  among  the  multitude  of  hoary 
trunks,  and  hidden  from  earth  and  sky  by  the  mystery 
of  darksome  foliage.  Nothing  is  within  my  daily  reach 
more  like  a  forest  than  the  acre  or  two  of  woodland  near 
some  suburban  farm-house.  When,  therefore,  the  yearn- 
ing for  seclusion  becomes  a  necessity  within  me,  I  am 
drawn  to  the  sea-shore,  which  extends  its  line  of  rude 
rocks  and  seldom-trodden  sands,  for  leagues  around  our 
bay.  Setting  forth  at  rny  last  ramble,  on  a  September 
morning,  I  bound  myself  with  a  hermit's  vow,  to  inter- 
change no  thoughts  with  man  or  woman,  to  share  no 
social  pleasure,  but  to  derive  all  that  day's  enjoyment 
from  shore,  and  sea,  and  sky,  —  from  my  soul's  commun- 
ion with  these,  and  from  fantasies,  and  recollections,  or 
anticipated  realities.  Surely  here  is  enough  to  feed  a 


236  TWICE-TOLD    TALES. 

human  spirit  for  a  single  day.  Farewell,  then,  busy 
world!  Till  your  evening  lights  shall  shine  along  the 
street,  —  till  they  gleam  upon  my  sea-flushed  face,  as  I 
tread  homeward,  —  free  me  from  your  ties,  and  let  me 
be  a  peaceful  outlaw. 

Highways  and  cross-paths  are  hastily  traversed,  and, 
clambering  down  a  crag,  I  find  myself  at  the  extremity 
of  a  long  beach.  How  gladly  does  the  spirit  leap  forth, 
and  suddenly  enlarge  its  sense  of  being  to  the  full  extent 
of  the  broad,  blue,  sunny  deep  !  A  greeting  and  a  hom- 
age to  the  Sea  !  I  descend  over  its  margin,  and  dip  my 
hand  into  the  wave  that  meets  me,  and  bathe  my  brow. 
That  far-resounding  roar  is  Ocean's  voice  of  welcome. 
His  salt  breath  brings  a  blessing  along  with  it.  Now  let 
us  pace  together  —  the  reader's  fancy  arm  in  arm  with 
mine  —  this  noble  beach,  which  extends  a  mile  or  more 
from  that  craggy  promontory  to  yonder  rampart  of  broken 
rocks.  In  front,  the  sea ;  in  the  rear,  a  precipitous  bank, 
the  grassy  verge  of  which  is  breaking  away,  year  after 
year,  and  flings  down  its  tufts  of  verdure  upon  the  bar- 
renness below.  The  beach  itself  is  a  broad  space  of  sand, 
brown  and  sparkling,  with  hardly  any  pebbles  intermixed. 
Near  the  water's  edge  there  is  a  wet  margin,  which  glis- 
tens brightly  in  the  sunshine,  and  reflects  objects  like  a 
mirror ;  and  as  we  tread  along  the  glistening  border,  a 
dry  spot  flashes  around  each  footstep,  but  grows  moist 
again,  as  we  lift  our  feet.  In  some  spots,  the  sand 
receives  a  complete  impression  of  the  sole,  square  toe 
and  all;  elsewhere  it  is  of  such  marble  firmness,  that. we 
must  stamp  heavily  to  leave  a  print  even  of  the  iron-shod 
heel.  Along  the  whole  of  this  extensive  beach  gambols 
the  surf  wave :  now  it  makes  a  feint  of  dashing  onward 
in  a  fury,  yet  dies  away  with  a  meek  murmur,  and  does 
but  kiss  the  strand ;  now,  after  many  such  abortive  ef- 


FOOTPRINTS    ON    THE    SEA-SHORE.  237 

forts,  it  rears  itself  up  in  an  unbroken  line,  heightening 
as  it  advances,  without  a  speck  of  foam  on  its  green  crest. 
"With  how  fierce  a  roar  it  flings  itself  forward,  and  rushes 
far  up  the  beach  ! 

As  I  threw  my  eyes  along  the  edge  of  the  surf,  I 
remember  that  I  was  startled,  as  Robinson  Crusoe  might 
have  been,  by  the  sense  that  human  life  was  within  the 
magic  circle  of  my  solitude.  Afar  off  in  the  remote  dis- 
tance of  the  beach,  appearing  like  sea-nymphs,  or  some 
airier  things,  such  as  might  tread  upon  the  feathery 
spray,  was  a  group  of  girls.  Hardly  had  I  beheld  them, 
when  they  passed  into  the  shadow  of  the  rocks  and  van- 
ished. To  comfort  myself — for  truly  I  would  fain  have 
gazed  a  while  longer  —  I  made  acquaintance  with  a  flock 
of  beach  birds.  These  little  citizens  of  the  sea  and  air 
preceded  me  by  about  a  stone's-throw  along  the  strand, 
seeking,  I  suppose,  for  food  upon  its  margin.  Yet,  with 
a  philosophy  which  mankind  would  do  well  to  imitate, 
they  drew  a  continual  pleasure  from  their  toil  for  a  sub- 
sistence. The  sea  was  each  little  bird's  great  playmate. 
They  chased  it  downward  as  it  swept  back,  and  again 
ran  up  swiftly  before  the  impending  wave,  which  some- 
times overtook  them  and  bore  them  oif  their  feet.  But 
they  floated  as  lightly  as  one  of  their  own  feathers  on 
the  breaking  crest.  In  their  airy  flutterings,  they  seemed 
to  rest  on  the  evanescent  spray.  Their  images  —  long- 
legged  little  figures,  with  gray  backs  and  snowy  bos- 
oms —  were  seen  as  distinctly  as  the  realities  in  the 
mirror  of  the  glistening  strand.  As  I  advanced,  they 
flew  a  score  or  two  of  yards,  and,  again  alighting,  recom- 
menced their  dalliance  with  the  surf  wave ;  and  thus  they 
bore  me  company  along  the  beach,  the  types  of  pleasant 
fantasies,  till,  at  its  extremity,  they  took  wing  over  the 
ocean,  and  were  gone.  After  forming  a  friendship  with 


238  TWICE-TOLD   TALES. 

iliese  small  surf-spirits,  it  is  really  worth  a  sigh,  to  find 
no  memorial  of  them,  save  their  multitudinous  little 
tracks  in  the  sand. 

"When  we  have  paced  the  length  of  the  beach,  it  is 
pleasant,  and  not  unprofitable,  to  retrace  our  steps,  and 
recall  the  whole  mood  and  occupation  of  the  mind 
during  the  former  passage.  Our  tracks,  being  all  dis- 
cernible, will  guide  us  with  an  observing  consciousness 
through  every  unconscious  wandering  of  thought  and 
fancy.  Here  we  followed  the  surf  in  its  reflux,  to  pick 
up  a  shell  which  the  sea  seemed  loath  to  relinquish. 
Here  we  found  a  sea-weed,  with  an  immense  brown  leaf, 
and  trailed  it  behind  us  by  its  long  snake-like  stalk. 
Here  we  seized  a  live  horseshoe  by  the  tail,  and  counted 
the  many  claws  of  the  queer  monster.  Here  we  dug 
into  the  sand  for  pebbles,  and  skipped  them  upon  the 
surface  of  the  water.  Here  we  wet  our  feet  while  ex- 
amining a  jelly-fish,  which  the  waves,  having  just  tossed 
it  up,  now  sought  to  snatch  away  again.  Here  we  trod 
along  the  brink  of  a  fresh-water  brooklet,  which  flows 
across  the  beach,  becoming  shallower  and  more  shallow, 
till  at  last  it  sinks  into  the  sand,  and  perishes  in  the 
effort  to  bear  its  little  tribute  to  the  main.  Here  some 
vagary  appears  to  have  bewildered  us;  for  our  tracks 
go  round  and  round,  and  are  confusedly  intermingled, 
as  if  we  had  found  a  labyrinth  upon  the  level  beach. 
And  here,  amid  our  idle  pastime,  we  sat  down  upon 
almost  the  only  stone  that  breaks  the  surface  of  the 
sand,  and  were  lost  in  an  unlooked-for  and  overpowering 
conception  of  the  majesty  and  awfulness  of  the  great 
deep.  Thus,  by  tracking  our  footprints  in  the  sand,  we 
track  our  own  nature  in  its  wayward  course,  and  steal 
a  glance  upon  it,  when  it  never  dreams  of  being  so 
observed.  Such  glances  always  make  us  wiser. 


FOOTPRINTS   ON   THE    SEA-SHOltE.          239 

This  extensive  beach  affords  room  for  another  pleasant 
pastime.  With  your  staff  you  may  write  verses  —  love- 
verses,  if  they  please  you  best  —  and  consecrate  them 
with  a  woman's  name.  Here,  too,  may  be  inscribed 
thoughts,  feelings,  desires,  warm  outgushings  from  the 
heart's  secret  places,  which  you  would  not  pour  upon 
the  sand  without  the  certainty  that,  almost  ere  the  sky 
has  looked  upon  them,  the  sea  will  wash  them  out. 
Stir  not  hence  till  the  record  be  effaced.  Now  —  for 
there  is  room  enough  on  your  canvas  —  draw  huge 
faces,  —  huge  as  that  of  the  Sphinx  on  Egyptian  sands, 
—  and  fit  them  with  bodies  of  corresponding  immensity, 
and  legs  which,  might  stride  half-way  to  yonder  island. 
Child's  play  becomes  magnificent  on  so  grand  a  scale. 
But,  after  all,  the  most  fascinating  employment  is  sim- 
ply to  write  your  name  in  the  sand.  Draw  the  letters 
gigantic,  so  that  two  strides  may  barely  measure  them, 
and  three  for  the  long  strokes  !  Cut  deep,  that  the  rec- 
ord may  be  permanent !  Statesmen,  and  warriors,  and 
poets  have  spent  their  strength  in  no  better  cause  than 
this.  Is  it  accomplished  ?  Return,  then,  in  an  hour  or 
two,  and  seek  for  this  mighty  record  of  a  name.  The 
sea  will  have  swept  over  it,  even  as  time  rolls  its  effacing 
waves  over  the  names  of  statesmen,  and  warriors,  and 
poets.  Hark,  the  surf  wave  laughs  at  you  ! 

Passing  from  the  beach,  I  begin  to  clamber  over  the 
crags,  making  my  difficult  way  among  the  ruins  of  a 
rampart,  shattered  and  broken  by  the  assaults  of  a 
fierce  enemy.  The  rocks  rise  in  every  variety  of  atti- 
tude ;  some  of  them  have  their  feet  in  the  foam,  and 
are  shagged  half-way  upward  with  sea- weed ;  some  have 
been  hollowed  almost  into  caverns  by  the  unwearied  toil 
of  the  sea,  which  can  afford  to  spend  centuries  in  wear- 
ing away  a  rock,  or  even  polishing  a  pebble.  One  huge 


210  TWICE-TOLD    TALES. 

rock  ascends  in  monumental  shape,  with  a  face  like  a 
giant's  tombstone,  on  which  the  veins  resemble  inscrip- 
tions, but  in  an  unknown  tongue.  We  will  fancy  them 
the  forgotten  characters  of  an  antediluvian  race;  or 
else  that  Nature's  own  hand  has  here  recorded  a  mys- 
tery, which,  could  I  read  her  language,  would  make 
mankind  the  wiser  and  the  happier.  How  many  a  thing 
has  troubled  me  with  that  same  idea  !  Pass  on,  and 
leave  it  unexplained.  Here  is  a  narrow  avenue,  which 
might  seem  to  have  been  hewn  through  the  very  heart 
of  an  enormous  crag,  affording  passage  for  the  rising 
sea  to  thunder  back  and  forth,  filling  it  with  tumultuous 
foam,  and  then  leaving  its  floor  of  black  pebbles  bare 
and  glistening.  In  this  chasm  there  was  once  an  inter- 
secting vein  of  softer  stone,  which  the  waves  have 
gnawed  away  piecemeal,  while  the  granite  walls  re- 
main entire  on  either  side.  How  sharply,  and  with 
what  harsh  clamor,  does  the  sea  rake  back  the  pebbles, 
as  it  momentarily  withdraws  into  its  own  depths  !  At 
intervals,  the  floor  of  the  chasm  is  left  nearly  dry ;  but 
anon,  at  the  outlet,  two  or  three  great  waves  are  seen 
struggling  to  get  in  at  once  ;  two  hit  the  walls  athwart, 
while  one  rushes  straight  through,  and  all  three  thun- 
der, as  if  with  rage  and  triumph.  They  heap  the  chasm 
with  a  snow-drift  of  foam  and  spray.  While  watching 
this  scene,  I  can  never  rid  myself  of  the  idea  that  a 
monster,  endowed  with  life  and  fierce  energy,  is  striv- 
ing to  burst  his  way  through  the  narrow  pass.  And 
what  a  contrast,  to  look  through  the  stormy  chasm,  and 
catch  a  glimpse  of  the  calm  bright  sea  beyond ! 

Many  interesting  discoveries  may  be  made  among 
these  broken  cliffs.  Once,  for  example,  I  found  a  dead 
seal,  which  a  recent  tempest  had  tossed  into  the  nook  of 
the  rocks,  where  his  shaggy  carcass  lay  rolled  in  a  heap 


FOOTPRINTS    ON    THE    SEA-SHORE.  211 

of  eel-grass,  as  if  the  sea-monster  sought  to  hide  himself 
from  my  eye.  Another  time,  a  shark  seemed  on  the 
point  of  leaping  from  the  surf  to  swallow  me ;  nor  did 
I  wholly  without  dread  approach  near  enough  to  ascer- 
tain that  the  man-eater  had  already  met  his  own  death 
from  some  fisherman  in  the  bay.  In  the  same  ramble, 
I  encountered  a  bird,  —  a  large  gray  bird,  — but  whether 
a  loon,  or  a  wild  goose,  or  the  identical  albatross  of  the 
Ancient  Mariner,  was  beyond  my  ornithology  to  decide. 
It  reposed  so  naturally  on  a  bed  of  dry  sea-weed,  with 
its  head  beside  its  wing,  that  I  almost  fancied  it  alive, 
and  trod  softly  lest  it  should  suddenly  spread  its  wings 
skyward.  But  the  sea-bird  would  soar  among  the  clouds 
no  more,  nor  ride  upon  its  native  waves  ;  so  I  drew 
near,  and  pulled  out  one  of  its  mottled  tail-feathers  for 
a  remembrance.  Another  day,  I  discovered  an  immense 
bone,  wedged  into  a  chasm  of  the  .rocks ;  it  was  at  least 
ten  feet  long,  curved  like  a  cimeter,  bejewelled  with  bar- 
nacles and  small  shell-fish,  and  partly  covered  with  a 
growth  of  sea-weed.  Some  leviathan  of  former  ages  had 
used  this  ponderous  mass  as  a  jawbone.  Curiosities  of 
a  minuter  order  may  be  observed  in  a  deep  reservoir, 
which  is  replenished  with  water  at  every  tide,  but  be- 
comes a  lake  among  the  crags,  save  when  the  sea  is  at 
its  height.  At  the  bottom  of  this  rocky  basin  groV  ma- 
rine plants,  some  of  which  tower  high  beneath  the  water, 
and  cast  a  shadow  in  the  sunshine.  Small  fishes  dart  to 
and  fro,  and  hide  themselves  among  the  sea-weed ;  there 
is  also  a  solitary  crab,  who  appears  to  lead  the  life  of  a 
hermit,  communing  with  none  of  the  other  denizens  of 
the  place  ;  and  likewise  several  five-fingers,  —  for  I  know 
no  other  name  than  that  which  children  give  them.  If 
your  imagination  be  at  all  accustomed  to  such  freaks, 
you  may  look  down  into  the  depths  of  this  pool,  and 

VOL.   II.  11  P 


242  TWICE-TOLD    TALES. 

fancy  it  the  mysterious  depth  of  ocean.  But  where  are 
the  hulks  and  scattered  timbers  of  sunken  ships?  — 
•where  the  treasures  that  old  Ocean  hoards  ?  —  where 
the  corroded  cannon  ?  —  where  the  corpses  and  skeletons 
of  seamen,  who  went  down  in  storm  and  battle  ? 

On  the  day  of  my  last  ramble  (it  was  a  September 
day,  yet  as  warm  as  summer),  what  should  I  behold  as 
I  approached  the  above-described  basin  but  three  girls 
sitting  on  its  margin,  and  —  yes,  it  is  veritably  so  — 
laving  their  snowy  feet  in  the  sunny  water  !  These, 
these  are  the  warm  realities  of  those  three  visionary 
shapes  that  flitted  from  me  on  the  beach.  Hark  !  their 
merry  voices,  as  they  toss  up  the  water  with  their  feet ! 
They  have  not  seen  me.  I  must  shrink  behind  this  rock, 
and  steal  away  again. 

In  honest  truth,  vowed  to  solitude  as  I  am,  there  is 
something  in  this  encounter  that  makes  the  heart  flutter 
with  a  strangely  pleasant  sensation.  I  know  these  girls 
to  be  realities  of  flesh  and  blood,  yet,  glancing  at  them 
so  briefly,  they  mingle  like  kindred  creatures  with  the 
ideal  beings  of  my  mind.  It  is  pleasant,  likewise,  to 
gaze  down  from  some  high  crag,  and  watch  a  group  of 
children,  gathering  pebbles  and  pearly  shells,  and  playing 
with  the  surf,  as  with  old  Ocean's  hoary  beard.  Nor 
does  it  infringe  upon  my  seclusion,  to  see  yonder  boat 
at  anchor  off  the  shore,  swinging  dreamily  to  and  fro, 
and  rising  and  sinking  with  the  alternate  swell ;  while 
the  crew  —  four  gentlemen,  in  roundabout  jackets  — 
are  busy  with  their  fishing-lines.  But,  with  an  inward 
antipathy  and  a  headlong  flight,  do  I  eschew  the  pres- 
ence of  any  meditative  stroller  like  myself,  known  by 
his  pilgrim  staff,  his  sauntering  step,  his  shy  demeanor, 
his  observant  yet  abstracted  eye.  From  such  a  man, 
as  if  another  self  had  scared  me,  I  scramble  hastily  over 


FOOTPRINTS    ON    THE    SEA-SHORE.          243 

the  rocks,  and  take  refuge  in  a  nook  which  many  a 
secret  hour. lias  given  me  a  right  to  call  my  own.  I 
would  do  battle  for  it  even  with  the  churl  that  should 
produce  the  title-deeds.  Have  not  my  musings  melted 
into  its  rocky  walls  and  sandy  floor,  and  made  them  a 
portion  of  myself? 

It  is  a  recess  in  the  line  of  cliffs,  walled  round  by  a 
rough,  high  precipice,  which  almost  encircles  and  shuts 
in  a  little  space  of  sand.  In  front,  the  sea  appears  as 
between  the.  pillars  of  a  portal.  In  the  rear,  the  preci- 
pice is  broken  and  intermixed  with  earth,  which  gives 
nourishment  not  only  to  clinging  and  twining  shrubs, 
but  to  trees,  that  gripe  the  rock  with  their  naked  roots, 
and  seem  to  struggle  hard  for  footing  and  for  soil 
enough  to  live  upon.  These  are  fir-trees;  but  oaks 
hang  their  heavy  branches  from  above,  and  throw  down 
acorns  on  the  beach,  and  shed  their  withering  foliage 
upon  the  waves.  At  this  autumnal  season,  the  precipice 
is  decked  with  variegated  splendor ;  trailing  wreaths  of 
scarlet  flaunt  from  the  summit  downward ;  tufts  of  yellow- 
flowering  shrubs,  and  rose-bushes,  with  their  reddened 
leaves  and  glossy  seed-berries,  sprout  from  each  crevice  ; 
at  every  glance,  I  detect  some  new  light  or  shade  of 
beauty,  all  contrasting  with  the  stern,  gray  rock.  A 
rill  of  water  trickles  down  the  cliff  and  fills  a  little  cis- 
tern near  the  base.  I  drain  it  at  a  draught,  and  find  it 
fresh  and  pure.  This  recess  shall  be  my  dining-hall. 
And  what  the  feast  ?  A  few  biscuits,  made  savory  by 
soaking  them  in  sea-water,  a  tuft  of  samphire  gathered 
from  the  beach,  and  an  apple  for  the  dessert.  By  this 
time,  the  little  rill  has  filled  its  reservoir  again;  and,  as 
I  quaff  it,  I  thank  God  more  heartily  than  for  a  civic 
banquet,  that  he  gives  me  the  healthful  appetite  to  make 
a  feast  of  bread  and  water. 


244  TWICE-TOLD    TALES. 

Dinner  being  over,  I  throw  myself  at  length  upon  the 
sand,  and,  basking  in  the  sunshine,  let  my  mind  disport 
itself  at  will.  The  walls  of  this  my  hermitage  have  no 
tongue  to  tell  my  follies,  though  I  sometimes  fancy  that 
they  have  ears  to  hear  them,  and  a  soul  to  sympathize. 
There  is  a  magic  in  this  spot.  Dreams  haunt  its  pr^- 
cincts,  and  flit  around  me  in  broad  sunlight,  nor  require 
that  sleep  shall  blindfold  me  to  real  objects,  ere  these  be 
visible.  Here  can  I  frame  a  story  of  two  lovers,  and 
make  their  shadows  live  before  me,  and  be  mirrored  in 
the  tranquil  water,  as  they  tread  along  the  sand,  leaving 
no  footprints.  Here,  should  I  will  it,  I  can  summon  up 
a  single  shade,  and  be  myself  her  lover.  Yes,  dreamer, 
—  but  your  lonely  heart  will  be  the  colder  for  such 
fancies.  Sometimes,  too,  the  Past  comes  back,  and  finds 
me  here,  and  in  her  train  come  faces  which  were  glad- 
some, when  I  knew  them,  yet  seem  not  gladsome  now. 
Would  that  my  hiding-place  were  lonelier,  so  that  the 
past  might  not  find  me !  Get  ye  all  gone,  old  friends, 
and  let  me  listen  to  the  murmur  of  the  sea,  —  a  melan- 
choly voice,  but  less  sad  than  yours.  Of  what  mysteries 
is  it  telling  ?  Of  sunken  ships,  and  whereabouts  they 
lie?  Of  islands  afar  and  undiscovered,  whose  tawny 
children  are  unconscious  of  other  islands  and  of  conti- 
nents, and  deem  the  stars  of  heaven  their  nearest  neigh- 
bors ?  Nothing  of  all  this.  What  then  ?  Has  it  talked 
for  so  many  ages,  and  meant  nothing  all  the  while  ? 
No ;  for  those  ages  find  utterance  in  the  sea's  unchanging 
voice,  and  warn  the  listener  to  withdraw  his  interest 
from  mortal  vicissitudes,  and  let  the  infinite  idea  of  eter- 
nity pervade  his  soul.  This  is  wisdom ;  and,  therefore, 
will  I  spend  the  next  half-hour  in  shaping  little  boats 
of  drift-wood,  and  launching  them  on  voyages  across  the 
cove,  with  the  feather  of  a  sea-gull  for  a  sail.  If  the 


FOOTPRINTS    OX    THE    SEA-SIIOHE.          245 

voice  of  ages  tell  me  true,  this  is  as  wise  an  occupation 
as  to  build  ships  of  five  hundred  tons,  and  launch  them 
forth  upon  the  main,  bound  to  "  far  Cathay."  Yet,  how 
would  the  merchant  sneer  at  me  ! 

And,  after  all,  can  such  philosophy  be  true  ?  Me- 
thinks  I  could  find  a  thousand  arguments  against  it. 
Well,  then,  let  yonder  shaggy  rock,  mid-deep  in  the  surf, 
—  see  !  he  is  somewhat  wrathful,  —  he  rages  and  roars 
and  foams,  —  let  that  tall  rock  be  my  antagonist,  and  let 
me  exercise  my  oratory  like  him  of  Athens,  who  bandied 
words  with  an  angry  sea  and  got  the  victory.  My  maiden 
speech  is  a  triumphant  one ;  for  the  gentleman  in  sea-weed 
has  nothing  to  offer  in  reply,  save  an  immitigable  roaring. 
His  voice,  indeed,  will  be  heard  a  long  while  after  mine 
is  hushed.  Once  more  I  shout,  and  the  cliffs  reverberate 
the  sound.  O,  what  joy  for  'a  shy  man  to  feel  himself  so 
solitary,  that  he  may  lift  his  voice  to  its  highest  pitch 
without  hazard  of  a  listener  !  But,  hush  !  —  be  silent, 
my  good  friend  !  —  whence  comes  that  stifled  laughter  ? 
It  was  musical,  — but  how  should  there  be  such  music  in 
my  solitude  ?  Looking  upwards,  I  catch  a  glimpse  of 
three  faces,  peeping  from  the  summit  of  the  cliff,  like 
angels  between  me  and  their  native  sky.  Ah,  fair  girls, 
you  may  make  yourselves  merry  at  my  eloquence,  —  but 
it  was  my  turn  to  smile  when  I  saw  your  white  feet  in 
the  pool !  Let  us  keep  each  other's  secrets. 

Tlie  sunshine  has  now  passed  from  my  hermitage,  ex- 
cept a  gleam  upon  the  sand  just  where  it  meets  the  sea. 
A  crowd  of  gloomy  fantasies  will  come  and  haunt  me,  if 
I  tarry  longer  here,  in  the  darkening  twilight  of  these 
gray  rocks.  This  is  a  dismal  place  in  some  moods  of 
the  mind.  Climb  we,  therefore,  the  precipice,  and  pause 
a  moment  on  the  brink,  gazing  down  into  that  hollow 
chamber  by  the  deep  where  we  have  been,  what  few  can 


246  TWICE-TOLD    TALES. 

be,  sufficient  to  our  own  pastime,  —  yes,  say  the  word 
outright !  —  self-sufficient  to  our  own  happiness.  How 
lonesome  looks  the  recess  now,  and  dreary,  too,  —  like  all 
other  spots  where  happiness  has  been !  There  lies  my 
shadow  in  the  departing  sunshine  with  its  head  upon  the 
sea.  I  will  pelt  it  with  pebbles.  A  hit !  a  hit !  I  clap 
my  hands  in  triumph,  and  see !  my  shadow  clapping  its 
unreal  hands,  and  claiming  the  triumph  for  itself.  "\Vhat 
a  simpleton  must  I  have  been  all  day,  since  my  own 
shadow  makes  a  mock  of  my  fooleries  ! 

Homeward  !  homeward  !  It  is  time  to  hasten  home. 
It  is  time ;  it  is  time ;  for  as  the  sun  sinks  over  the 
western  wave,  the  sea  grows  melancholy,  and  the  surf 
has  a  saddened  tone.  The  distant  sails  appear  astray, 
and  not  of  earth,  in  their  remoteness  amid  the  desolate 
waste.  My  spirit  wanders  forth  afar,  but  finds  no  rest- 
ing-place, and  comes  shivering  back.  It  is  time  that  I 
were  hence.  But  grudge  me  not  the  day  that  has  been 
spent  in  seclusion,  which  yet  was  not  solitude,  since  the 
great  sea  has  been  my  companion,  and  the  little  sea-birds 
my  friends,  and  the  wind  has  told  me  his  secrets,  and 
airy  shapes  have  flitted  around  me  in  my  hermitage. 
Such  companionship  works  an  effect  upon  a  man's  char- 
acter, as  if  he  had  been  admitted  to  the  society  of  crea- 
tures that  are  not  mortal.  And  when,  at  noontide,  I 
tread  the  crowded  streets,  the  influence  of  this  day  will 
still  be  felt ;  so  that  I  shall  walk  among  men  kindly  and 
as  a  brother,  with  affection  and  sympathy,  but  yet  shall 
not  melt  into  the  indistinguishable  mass  of  humankind. 
I  shall  think  my  own  thoughts,  and  feel  my  own  emotions, 
and  possess  my  individuality  unviolated. 

But  it  is  good,  at  the  eve  of  such  a  day,  to  feel  and 
know  that  there  are  men  and  women  in  the  world.  That 
feeling  and  that  knowledge  are  mine,  at  this  moment  ; 


FOOTPRINTS    ON    THE    SEA-SHORE.  247 

for,  on  the  shore,  far  below  me,  the  fishing-party  have 
landed  from  their  skiff,  and  are  cooking  their  scaly  prey 
by  a  fire  of  drift-wood,  kindled  in  the  angle  of  two  rude 
rocks.  The  tliree  visionary  girls  are  likewise  there.  In 
the  deepening  twilight,  while  the  surf  is  dashed  near  their 
hearth,  the  ruddy  gleam  of  the  fire  throws  a  strange  air 
of  comfort  over  the  wild  cove,  bestrewn  as  it  is  with  peb- 
bles and  sea- weed,  and  exposed  to  the  "  melancholy  main." 
Moreover,  as  the  smoke  climbs  up  the  precipice,  it  brings 
with  it  a  savory  smell  from  a  pan  of  fried  fish,  and  a  black 
kettle  of  chowder,  and  reminds  me  that  my  dinner  was 
nothing  but  bread  and  water,  and  a  tuft  of  samphire, 
and  an  apple.  Methinks  the  party  might  find  room  for 
another  guest,  at  that  flat  rock  which  serves  them  for  a 
table ;  and  if  spoons1  be  scarce,  I  could  pick  up  a  clam- 
shell on  the  beach.  They  see  me  now  ;  and  —  the  bless- 
ing of  a  hungry  man  upon  him  !  —  one  of  them  sends  up 
a  hospitable  shout,  —  halloo,  Sir  Solitary  !  come  down  and 
sup  with  us  !  The  ladies  wave  their  handkerchiefs.  Can 
I  decline  ?  No  ;  and  be  it  owned,  after  all  my  solitary 
joys,  that  this  is  the  sweetest  moment  of  a  Day  by  the 
Sea-shore. 


EDWARD  FANE'S  ROSEBUD. 


[pIEE-E  is  hardly  a  more  difficult  exercise  of  fancy, 
than,  while  gazing  at  a  figure  of  melancholy  age, 
to  re-create  its  youth,  and,  without  entirely  ob- 
literating the  identity  of  form  and  features,  to  restore 
those  graces  which  time  has  snatched  away.  Some  old 
people,  especially  women,  so  age- worn  and  woful  are 
they,  seem  never  to  have  been  young  and  gay.  It  is 
easier  to  conceive  that  such  gloomy  phantoms  were  sent 
into  the  world  as  withered  and  decrepit  as  we  behold 
them  now,  with  sympathies  only  for  pain  and  grief,  to 
watch  at  death-beds,  and  weep  at  funerals.  Even  the 
sable  garments  of  their  widowhood  appear  essential  to 
their  existence ;  all  their  attributes  combine  to  render 
them  darksome  shadows,  creeping  strangely  amid  the 
sunshine  of  human  life.  Yet  it  is  no  unprofitable  task, 
to  take  one  of  these  doleful  creatures,  and  set  fancy  reso- 
lutely at  work  to  brighten  the  dim  eye,  and  darken  the 
silvery  locks,  and  paint  the  ashen  cheek  with  rose-color, 
and  repair  the  shrunken  and  crazy  form,  till  a  dewy 
maiden  shall  be  seen  in  the  old  matron's  elbow-chair. 
The  miracle  being  wrought,  then  let  the  years  roll  back 
again,  each  sadder  than  the  last,  and  the  whole  weight  of 
age  and  sorrow  settle  down  upon  the  youthful  figure. 
Wrinkles  and  furrows,  the  handwriting  of  Time,  may 


EDWARD    FANE'S    ROSEBUD.  249 

thus  be  deciphered,  and  found  to  contain  deep  lessons  of 
thought  and  feeling.  Such  profit  might  be  derived,  by 
a  skilful  observer,  from  my  much-respected  friend,  the 
Widow  Toothaker,  a  nurse  of  great  repute,  who  has 
breathed  the  atmosphere  of  sick-chambers  and  dying 
breaths  these  forty  years.  • 

See  !  she  sits  cowering  over  her  lonesome  hearth,  with 
her  gown  and  upper  petticoat  drawn  upward,  gathering 
thriftily  into  her  person  the  whole  warmth  of  the  fire, 
which,  now  at  nightfall,  begins  to  dissipate  the  autumnal 
chill  of  her  chamber.  The  blaze  quivers  capriciously  in 
front,  alternately  glimmering  into  the  deepest  chasms  of 
her  wrinkled  visage,  and  then  permitting'a  ghostly  dim- 
ness to  mar  the  outlines  of  her  venerable  figure.  And 
Nurse  Toothaker  holds  a  teaspoon  in  her  right  hand, 
with  which  to  stir  up  the  contents  of  a  tumbler  in  her 
left,  whence  steams  a  vapory  fragrance,  abhorred  of  tem- 
perance societies.  Now  she  sips, — now  stirs,  —  now 
sips  again.  Her  sad  old  heart  has  need  to  be  revived  by 
the  rich  infusion  of  Geneva,  which  is  mixed  half  and  half 
with  hot  water,  in  the  tumbler.  All  day  long  she  has 
been  sitting  by  a  death-pillow,  and  quitted  it  for  her 
home,  only  when  the  spirit  of  her  patient  left  the  clay 
and  went  homeward  too.  But  now  are  her  melancholy 
meditations  cheered,  and  her  torpid  blood  warmed,  and 
her  shoulders  lightened  of  at  least  twenty  ponderous 
years,  by  a  draught  from  the  true  Fountain  of  Youth,  in 
a  case-bottle.  It  is  strange  that  men  should  deem  that 
fount  a  fable  when  its  liquor  fills  more  bottles  than  the 
Congress-water!  Sip  it  again,  good  nurse,  and  see 
whether  a  second  draught  will  not  take  off  another  score 
of  years,  and  perhaps  ten  more,  and  show  us,  in  your 
high-backed  chair,  the  blooming  damsel  who  plighted 
troths  with  Edward  Fane.  Get  you  gone,  Age  and 
11* 


250  TWICE-TOLD    TALES. 

Widowhood  !  Come  back,  unwedded  Youth  !  But, 
alas  !  the  charm  will  not  work.  In  spite  of  fancy's  most 
potent  spell,  I  can  see  only  an  old  dame  cowering  over 
the  fire,  a  picture  of  decay  and  desolation,  while  the 
November  blast  roars  at  her  in  the  chimney,  and  fitful 
showers  rush  suddenly  against  the  window. 

Yet  there  was  a  time  when  Rose  Grafton  —  such  was 
the  pretty  maiden  name  of  Nurse  Toothaker  —  pos- 
sessed beauty  that  would  have  gladdened  this  dim  and 
dismal  chamber  as  with  sunshine.  It  won  for  her  the 
heart  of  Edward  Fane,  who  has  since  made  so  great  a 
figure  in  the  world,  and  is  now  a  grand  old  gentleman, 
with  powdered  hair,  and  as  gouty  as  a  lord.  These  early 
lovers  thought  to  have  walked  hand  in  hand  through  life. 
They  had  wept  together  for  Edward's  little  sister  Mary, 
whom  Rose  tended  in  her  sickness,  partly  because  she 
was  the  sweetest  child  that  ever  lived  or  died,  but  more 
for  love  of  him.  She  was  but  three  years  old.  Being 
such  an  infant,  Death  could  not  embody  his  terrors  in  her 
little  corpse  ;  nor  did  Rose  fear  to  touch  the  dead  child's 
brow,  though  chill,  as  she  curled  the  silken  hair  around 
it,  nor  to  take  her  tiny  hand,  and  clasp  a  flower  within 
its  fingers.  Afterward,  when  she  looked  through  the 
pane  of  glass  in  the  coffin-lid,  and  beheld  Mary's  face,  it 
seemed  not  so  much  like  death,  or  life,  as  like  a  wax- 
work, wrought  into  the  perfect  image  of  a  child  asleep, 
and  dreaming  of  its  mother's  smile.  Rose  thought  her 
too  fair  a  thing  to  be  hidden  in  the  grave,  and  wondered 
that  an  angel  did  not  snatch  up  little  Mary's  coffin,  and 
bear  the  slumbering  babe  to  heaven,  and  bid  her  wake 
immortal.  But  when  the  sods  were  laid  on  little  Mary, 
the  heart  of  Rose  was  troubled.  She  shuddered  at  the 
fantasy,  that,  in  grasping  the  child's  cold  fingers,  her 
virgin -hand  had  exchanged  a  first  greeting  with  mor- 


EDWARD    FANE'S    ROSEBUD.  251 

tality,  and  could  never  lose  the  earthly  taint.  How 
many  a  greeting  since  !  But  as  yet,  she  was  a  fair 
young  girl,  with  the  dewdrops  of  fresh  feeling  in  her 
bosom  ;  and  instead  of  Rose,  which  seemed  too  mature 
a  name  for  her  half-opened  beauty,  her  lover  called  her 
Rosebud. 

The  rosebud  was  destined  never  to  bloom  for  Edward 
Fane.  His  mother  was  a  rich  and  haughty  dame,  with 
all  the  aristocratic  prejudices  of  colonial  times.  She 
scorned  Rose  Grafton's  humble  parentage,  and  caused 
her  son  to  break  his  faith,  though,  had  she  let  him 
choose,  he  would  have  prized  his  Rosebud  above  the 
richest  diamond.  The  lovers  parted,  and  have  seldom 
met  again.  Both  may  have  visited  the  same  mansions, 
but  not  at  the  same  time;  for  one  was  bidden  to  the 
festal  hall,  and  the  other  to  the  sick -chamber ;  he.  was 
the  guest  of  Pleasure  and  Prosperity,  and  she  of  Anguish. 
Rose,  after  their  separation,  was  long  secluded  within  the 
dwelling  of  Mr.  Toothaker,  whom  she  married  with  the 
revengeful  hope  of  breaking  her  false  lover's  heart.  She 
went  to  her  bridegroom's  arms  with  bitterer  tears,  they 
say,  than  young  girls  ought  to  shed  at  the  threshold  of 
the  bridal  chamber.  Yet,  though  her  husband's  head 
was  getting  gray,  and  his  heart  had  been  chilled  with  an 
autumnal  frost,  Rose  soon  began  to  love  him,  and  won- 
dered at  her  own  conjugal  affection.  He  was  all  she  had 
to  love ;  there  were  no  children. 

In  a  year  or  two,  poor  Mr.  Toothaker  was  visited 
with  a  wearisome  infirmity  which  settled  in  his  joints, 
and  made  him  weaker  than  a  child.  He  crept  forth 
about  his  business,  and  came  home  at  dinner-time  and 
eventide,  not  with  the  manly  tread  that  gladdens  a 
wife's  heart,  but  slowly,  feebly,  jotting  down  each  dull 
footstep  with  a  melancholy  dub  of  his  staff.  We  must 


252  TWICE-TOLD    TALES. 

pardon  his  pretty  wife,  if  she  sometimes  blushed  to  own 
him.  Her  visitors,  when  they  heard  him  coming,  looked 
for  the  appearance  of  some  old,  old  man ;  but  he  dragged 
bis  nerveless  limbs  into  the  parlor, —  and  there  was  Mr. 
Toothaker  !  The  disease  increasing,  he  never  went  into 
the  sunshine,  save  with  a  staff  in  his  right  hand  and  his 
left  on  his  wife's  shoulder,  bearing  heavily  downward, 
like  a  dead  man's  hand.  Thus,  a  slender  woman,  still 
looking  maiden-like,  she  supported  his  tall,  broad-chested 
frame  along  the  pathway  of  their  little  garden,  and 
plucked  the  roses  for  her  gray-haired  husband,  and  spoke 
soothingly,  as  to  an  infant.  His  mind  was  palsied  with 
his  body ;  its  utmost  energy  was  peevishness.  In  a  few 
months  more,  she  helped  him  up  the  staircase,  with  a 
pause  at  every  step,  and  a  longer  one  upon  the  landing- 
place,  and  a  heavy  glance  behind,  as  he  crossed  the 
threshold  of  his  chamber.  He  knew,  poor  man,  that  the 
precincts  of  those  four  walls  would  thenceforth  be  his 
world,  —  his  world,  his  home,  his  tomb,  —  at  once  a 
dwelling  and  a  burial-place,  till  he  were  borne  to  a  darker 
and  a  narrower  one.  But  Rose  was  with  him  in  the 
tomb.  He  leaned  upon  her,  in*  his  daily  passage  from 
the  bed  to  the  chair  by  the  fireside,  and  back  again  from 
the  weary  chair  to  the  joyless  bed, —  his  bed  and  hers,  — 
their  marriage-bed ;  till  even  this  short  journey  ceased, 
and  his  head  lay  all  day  upon  the  pillow,  and  hers  all 
night  beside  it.  How  long  poor  Mr.  Toothaker  was 
kept  in  misery !  Death  seemed  to  draw  near  the  door, 
and  often  to  lift  the  latch,  and  sometimes  to  thrust  his 
ugly  skull  into  the  chamber,  nodding  to  Rose,  and  point- 
ing at  her  husband,  but  still  delayed  to  enter.  "  This 
bedridden  wretch  cannot  escape  me  !  "  quoth  Death.  "  I 
will  go  forth,  and  run  a  race  with  the  swift,  and  fight  a 
battle  with  the  strong,  and  come  back  for  Toothaker  at 


EDWARD    FANE'S    ROSEBUD.  253 

my  leisure  !"  O,  when  the  deliverer  came  so  near  in  the 
dull  anguish  of  her  worn-out  sympathies,  did  she  never 
long  to  cry,  "  Death,  come  in  !  " 

But,  110  !  We  have  no  right  to  ascribe  such  a  wish  to 
our  friend  Rose.  She  never  failed  in  a  wife's  duty  to 
her  poor  sick  husband.  She  murmured  not,  though  a 
glimpse  of  the  sunny  sky  was  as  strange  to  her  as  him, 
nor  answered  peevishly,  though  his  complaining  accents 
roused  her  from  her  sweetest  dream,  only  to  share  his 
wretchedness.  He  knew  her  faith,  yet  nourished  a  can- 
kered jealousy ;  and  when  the  slow  disease  had  chilled 
all  his  heart,  save  one  lukewarm  spot,  which  Death's 
frozen  fingers  were  searching  for,  his  last  words  were, 
"  What  would  my  Rose  have  done  for  her  first  love,  if  she 
has  been  so  true  and  kind  to  a  sick  old  man  like  me !  " 
And  then  his  poor  soul  crept  away,  and  left  the  body 
lifeless,  though  hardly  more  so  than  for  years  before,  and 
Rose  a  widow,  though  in  truth  it  was  the  wedding-night 
that  widowed  her.  She  felt  glad,  it  must  be  owned, 
when  Mr.  Toothaker  was  buried,  because  his  corpse  had 
retained  such  a  likeness  to  the  man  half  alive,  that  she 
hearkened  for  the  sad  murmur  of  his  voice,  bidding  her 
shift  his  pillow.  But  all  through  the  next  winter,  though 
the  grave  had  held  him  many  a  month,  she  fancied  him 
calling  from  that  cold  bed,  "  Rose !  Rose !  come  put  a 
blanket  on  my  feet !  " 

So  now  the  Rosebud  was  the  Widow  Toothaker.  Her 
troubles  had  come  early,  and,  tedious  as  they  seemed, 
had  passed  before  all  her  bloom  was  fled.  She  was  still 
fair  enough  to  captivate  a  bachelor,  or,  with  a  widow's 
cheerful  gravity,  she  might  have  won  a  widower,  stealing 
into  his  heart  in  the  very  guise  of  his  dead  wife.  But 
the  Widow  Toothaker  had  no  such  projects.  By  her 
watchiugs  and  continual  cares,  her  heart  had  become  knit 


254  TWICE-TOLD    TALES. 

to  her  first  husband  with  a  constancy  which  changed  its 
very  nature,  and  made  her  love  him  for  his  infirmi- 
ties, and  infirmity  for  his  sake.  When  the  palsied  old 
man  was  gone,  even  her  early  lover  could  not  have  sup- 
plied his  place.  She  had  dwelt  in  a  sick-chamber,  and 
been  the  companion  of  a  half-dead  wretch,  till  she  could 
scarcely  breathe  in  a  free  air,  and  felt  ill  at  ease  with  the 
healthy  and  the  happy.  She  missed  the  fragrance  of  the 
doctor's  stuff.  She  walked  the  chamber  with  a  noise- 
less footfall.  If  visitors  came  in,  she  spoke  in  soft  and 
soothing  accents,  and  was  startled  and  shocked  by  their 
loud  voices.  Often  in  the  lonesome  evening,  she  looked 
timorously  from  the  fireside  to  the  bed,  with  almost  a 
hope  of  recognizing  a  ghastly  face  upon  the  pillow. 
Then  went  her  thoughts  sadly  to  her  husband's  grave. 
If  one  impatient  throb  had  wronged  him  in  his  lifetime, 
—  if  she  had  secretly  repined,  because  her  buoyant  youth 
was  imprisoned  with  his  torpid  age,  —  if  ever,  while 
slumbering  beside  him,  a  treacherous  dream  had  admitted 
another  into  her  heart,  —  yet  the  sick  man  had  been  pre- 
paring a  revenge,  which  the  dead  now  claimed.  On  his 
painful  pillow,  he  had  cast  a  spell  around  her ;  his  groans 
and  misery  had  proved  more  captivating  charms  than 
gayety  and  youthful  grace ;  in  his  semblance,  Disease 
itself  had  won  the  Rosebud  for  a  bride ;  nor  could  his 
death  dissolve  the  nuptials.  By  that  indissoluble  bond 
she  had  gained  a  home  in  every  sick-chamber,  and  no- 
where else  ;  there  were  her  brethren  and  sisters  ;  thither 
her  husband  summoned  her,  with  that  voice  which  had 
seemed  to  issue  from  the  grave  of  Toothaker.  At  length 
she  recognized  her  destiny. 

We  have  beheld  her  as  the  maid,  the  wife,  the  widow ; 
now  we  see  her  in  a  separate  and  insulated  character ; 
she  was,  in  all  her  attributes,  Nurse  Toothaker.  And 


EDWARD    FANE'S    ROSEBUD.  255 

Nurse  Toothaker  alone,  with  her  own  shrivelled  lips, 
could  make  known  her  experience  in  that  capacity. 
What  a  history  might  she  record  of  the  great  sicknesses, 
in  which  she  has  gone  hand  in  hand  with  the  exterminat- 
ing angel !  She  remembers  when  the  small-pox  hoisted 
a  red  banner  on  almost  every  house  along  the  street.  She 
has  witnessed  when  the  typhus  fever  swept  off  a  whole 
household,  young  and  old,  all  but  a  lonely  mother,  who 
vainly  shrieked  to  follow  her  last  loved  one.  Where 
would  be  Death's  triumph,  if  none  lived  to  weep  ?  She 
can  speak  of  strange  maladies  that  have  broken  out,  as 
if  spontaneously,  but  were  found  to  have  been  imported 
from  foreign  lands,  with  rich  silks  and  other  merchandise, 
the  costliest  portion  of  the  cargo.  And  once,  she  recol- 
lects, the  people  died  of  what  was  considered  a  new  pes- 
tilence, till  the  doctors  traced  it  to  the  ancient  grave  of 
a  young  girl,  who  thus  caused  many  deaths  a  hundred 
years  after  her  own  burial.  Strange  that  such  black  mis- 
chief should  lurk  in  a  maiden's  grave !  She  loves  to  tell 
how  strong  men  fight  with  fiery  fevers,  utterly  refusing  to 
give  up  their  breath  ;  and  how  consumptive  virgins  fade 
out  of  the  world,  scarcely  reluctant,  as  if  their  lovers 
were  wooing  them  to  a  far  country.  Tell  us,  thou  fear- 
ful woman  !  tell  us  the  death-secrets  !  Fain  would  I 
search  out  the  meaning  of  words,  faintly  gasped  with 
intermingled  sobs,  and  broken  sentences,  half  audibly 
spoken  between  earth  and  the  judgment-seat ! 

An  awful  woman  !  She  is  the  patron  saint  of  young 
physicians,  and  the  bosom  friend  of  old  ones.  In  the 
mansions  where  she  enters,  the  inmates  provide  them- 
selves black  garments;  the  coffin-maker  follows  her; 
and  the  bell  tolls  as  she  comes  away  from  the  threshold. 
Death  himself  has  met  her  at  so  many  a  bedside,  that 
he  puts  forth  his  bony  hand  to  greet  Nurse  Toothaker. 


256  TWICE-TOLD    TALES. 

She  is  an  awful  woman !  And,  O,  is  it  conceivable, 
that  this  handmaid  of  human  infirmity  and  affliction  — 
so  darkly  stained,  so  thoroughly  imbued 'with  all  that 
is  saddest  in  the  doom  of  mortals  —  can  ever  again  tie 
bright  and  gladsome,  even  though  bathed  in  the  sun- 
shine of  eternity  ?  By  her  long  communion  with  woe, 
has  she  not  forfeited  her  inheritance  of  immortal  joy  ? 
Does  any  germ  of  bliss  survive  within  her? 

Hark  !  an  eager  knocking  at  Nurse  Toothaker's  door. 
She  starts  from  her  drowsy  revery,  sets  aside  the  empty 
tumbler  and  teaspoon,  and  lights  a  lamp  at  the  dim  em- 
bers of  the  fire.  Rap,  rap,  rap  !  again ;  and  she  hurries 
adown  the  staircase,  wondering  which  of  her  friends  can 
be  at  death's  door  now,  since  there  is  such  an  earnest 
messenger  at  Nurse  Toothaker's.  Again  the  peal  re- 
sounds, just  as  her  hand  is  on  the  lock.  "Be  quick, 
Nurse  Toothaker !  "  cries  a  man  on  the  doorstep ;  "  old 
General  Fane  is  taken  with  the  gout  in  his  stomach,  and 
has  sent  for  you  to  watch  by  his  death-bed.  Make  haste, 
for  there  is  no  time  to  lose  !  "  "  Fane  !  Edward  Fane  ! 
And  has  he  sent  for  me  at  last  ?  I  am  ready  !  I  will 
get  on  my  cloak  and  begone.  So,"  adds  the  sable-gowned, 
ashen- visaged,  funereal  old  figure,  "  Edward  Fane  remem- 
bers his  Rosebud ! " 

Our  question  is  answered.  There  is  a  germ  of  bliss 
within  her.  Her  long-hoarded  constancy —  her  memory 
of  the  bliss  that  was  —  remaining  amid  the  gloom  of  her 
after  life,  like  a  sweet-smelling  flower  in  a  coffin,  is  a 
symbol  that  all  may  be  renewed.  In  some  happier  clime, 
the  Rosebud  may  revive  again  with  all  the  dewdrops  in 
its  bosom. 


THE  THREEFOLD  DESTINY. 


A  FAIRY  LEGEND. 

HAVE  sometimes  produced  a  singular  and  not 
unpleasing  effect,  so  far  as  my  own  mind  was 
concerned,  by  imagining  a  train  of  incidents, 
which  the  spirit  and  mechanism  of  the  fairy  legend 
should  be  combined  with  the  characters  and  manners  of 
familiar  life.  In  the  little  tale  which  follows,  a  subdued 
tinge  of  ths  wild  and  wonderful  is  thrown  over  a  sketch 
of  New  England  personages  and  scenery,  yet,  it  is  hoped, 
without  entirely  obliterating  the  sober  hues  of  nature. 
Rather  than  a  story  of  events  claiming  to  be  real,  it 
may  be  considered  as  an  allegory,  such  as  the  writers 
of  the  last  century  would  have  expressed  in  the  shape 
of  an  Eastern  tale,  but  to  which  I  have  endeavored  to 
give  a  more  life-like  warmth  than  could  be  infused  into 
those  fanciful  productions. 

In  the  twilight  of  a  summer  eve,  a  tall,  dark  figure, 
over  which  long  and  remote  travel  had  thrown  an  out- 
landish aspect,  was  entering  a  village,  not  iii  "Fairy 
Londe,"  but  within  our  own  familiar  boundaries.  The 
staff,  on  which  this  traveller  leaned,  had  been  his  com- 
panion from  the  spot  where  it  grew,  in  the  jungles  of 
Hindostan  ;  the  hat,  that  overshadowed  his  sombre  brow, 
had  shielded  him  from  the  suns  of  Spain  ;  but  his  cheek 

Q 


258  TWICE-TOLD    TALES. 

had  been  blackened  by  the  red-hot  wind  of  an  Arabian 
desert,  and  had  felt  the  frozen  breath  of  an  Arctic  region. 
Long  sojourning  amid  wild  and  dangerous  men,  he  still 
wore  beneath  his  vest  the  ataghan  which  he  had  once 
struck  into  the  throat  of  a  Turkish  robber.  In  every 
foreign  clime  he  had  lost  something  of  his  New  England 
characteristics ;  and,  perhaps,  from  every  people  he  had 
unconsciously  borrowed  a  new  peculiarity  ;  so  that  when 
the  world-wanderer  again  trod  the  street  of  his  native 
village,  it  is  no  wonder  that  he  passed  unrecognized, 
though  exciting  the  gaze  and  curiosity  of  all.  Yet,  as 
his  arm  casually  touched  that  of  a  young  woman,  who 
was  wending  her  way  to  an  evening  lecture,  she  started, 
and  almost  uttered  a  cry. 

"  Ralph  Craufield  !  "  was  the  name  that  she  half  artic- 
ulated. 

"  Can  that  be  my  old  playmate,  Faith  Egerton  ? " 
thought  the  traveller,  looking  round  at  her  figure,  but 
without  pausing. 

Ralph  Craufield,  from  his  youth  upward,  had  felt 
himself  marked  out  for  a  high  destiny.  He  had  im- 
bibed the  idea  —  we  say  not  whether  it  were  revealed 
to  him  by  witchcraft,  or  in  a  dream  of  prophecy,  or  that 
his  brooding  fancy  had  palmed  its  own  dictates  upon 
him  as  the  oracles  of  a  Sibyl  —  but  he  had  imbibed 
the  idea,  and  held  it  firmest  among  his  articles  of  faith, 
that  three  marvellous  events  of  his  life  were  to  be  con- 
firmed to  him  by  three  signs. 

The  first  of  these  three  fatalities,  and  perhaps  the 
one  on  which  his  youthful  imagination  had  dwelt  most 
fondly,  was  the  discovery  of  the  maid,  who  alone,  of 
all  the  maids  on  earth,  could  make  him  happy  by  her 
love.  He  was  to  roam  around  the  world  till  he  should 
meet  a  beautiful  woman,  wearing  on  her  bosom  a  jewel 


THE    THREEFOLD    DESTINY.  259 

ill  the  shape  of  a  heart ;  whether  of  pearl,  or  ruby,  or 
emerald,  or  carbuncle,  or  a  changeful  opal,  or  perhaps 
a  priceless  diamond,  Ralph  Cranfield  little  cared,  so 
long  as  it  were  a  heart  of  one  peculiar  shape.  On 
encountering  this  lovely  stranger,  he  was  bound  to  ad- 
dress her  thus  :  "  Maiden,  I  have  brought  you  a  heavy 
heart.  May  I  rest  its  weight  on  you  ?  "  And  if  she 
were  his  fated  bride,  —  if  their  kindred  souls  were  des- 
tined to  form  a  union  here  below,  which  all  eternity 
should  only  bind  more  closely,  —  she  would  reply,  with 
her  finger  on  the  heart-shaped  jewel,  "  This  token,  which 
I  have  worn  so  long,  is  the  assurance  that  you  may !  " 

And,  secondly,  Ralph  Cranfield  had  a  firm  belief  that 
there  was  a  mighty  treasure  hidden  somewhere  in  the 
earth,  of  which  the  burial-place  would  be  revealed  to 
none  but  him.  When  his  feet  should  press  upon  the 
mysterious  spot,  there  would  be  a  hand  before  him, 
pointing  downward,  —  whether  carved  of  marble,  or 
hewn  in  gigantic  dimensions  on  the  side  of  a  rocky 
precipice,  or  perchance  a  hand  of  flame  in  empty  air,  he 
could  not  tell ;  but,  at  least,  he  would  discern  a  hand, 
the  forefinger  pointing  downward,  and  beneath  it  the 
Latin  word  EFFODE,  —  Dig  !  And  digging  thereabouts, 
the  gold  in  coin  or  ingots,  the  precious  stones,  or  of 
whatever  else  the  treasure  might  consist,  would  be  cer- 
tain to  reward  his  toil. 

The  third  and  last  of  the  miraculous  events  in  the  life 
of  this  high-destined  man  was  to  be  the  attainment  of 
extensive  influence  and  sway  over  his  fellow-creatures. 
Whether  he  were  to  be  a  king,  and  founder  of  an  hered- 
itary throne,  or  the  victorious  leader  of  a  people  con- 
tending for  their  freedom,  or  the  apostle  of  a  purified 
and  regenerated  faith,  was  left  for  futurity  to  show.  As 
messengers  of  the  sign,  by  which  Ralph  Cranfield  might 


260  TWICE-TOLD    TALES. 

recognize  the  summons,  three  venerable  men  were  to 
claim  audience  of  him.  The  chief  among  them,  a  digni- 
fied and  majestic  person,  arrayed,  it  may  be  supposed,  in 
the  flowing  garments  of  an  ancient  sage,  would  be  the 
bearer  of  a  wand,  or  prophet's  rod.  With  this  wand,  or 
rod,  or  staff,  the  venerable  sage  would  trace  a  certain 
figure  in  the  air,  and  then  proceed  to  make  known  his 
heaven-instructed  message ;  which,  if  obeyed,  must  lead 
to  glorious  results. 

With  this  proud  fate  before  him,  in  the  flush  of  his 
imaginative  youth,  Ralph  Cranfield  had  set  forth  to  seek 
the  maid,  the  treasure,  and  the  venerable  sage,  witli  his 
gift  of  extended  empire.  And  had  he  found  them  ?  Alas  ! 
it  was  not  with  the  aspect  of  a  triumphant  man,  who  had 
achieved  a  nobler  destiny  than  all  his  fellows,  but  rather 
with  the  gloom  of  one  struggling  against  peculiar  and 
continual  adversity,  that  he  now  passed  homeward  to  his 
mother's  cottage.  He  had  come  back,  but  only  for  a 
time,  to  lay  aside  the  pilgrim's  staif,  trusting  that  his 
weary  manhood  would  regain  somewhat  of  the  elasticity 
of  youth,  in  the  spot  where  his  threefold  fate  had  been 
foreshown  him.  There  had  been  few  changes  in  the 
village ;  for  it  was  not  one  of  those  thriving  places  where 
a  year's  prosperity  makes  more  than  the  havoc  of  a 
century's  decay ;  but  like  a  gray  hair  in  a  young  man's 
head,  an  antiquated  little  town,  full  of  old  maids,  and 
aged  elms,  and  moss-grown  dwellings.  Few  seemed  to 
be  the  changes  here.  The  drooping  elms,  indeed,  had 
a  more  majestic  spread ;  the  weather-blackened  houses 
were  adorned  with  a  denser  thatch  of  verdant  moss ;  and 
doubtless  there  were  a  few  more  gravestones  in  the 
burial-ground,  inscribed  with  names  that  had  once  been 
familiar  in  the  village  street.  Yet,  summing  up  all  the 
mischief  that  ten  years  had  wrought,  it  seemed  scarcely 


THE    THREEFOLD    DESTINY.  261 

more  than  if  Ralph  Cranfield  had  gone  forth  that  very 
morning,  and  dreamed  a  daydream  till  the  twilight,  and 
then  turned  back  again.  But  his  heart  grew  cold,  be- 
cause the  village  did  not  remember  him  as  he  remembered 
the  village. 

"  Here  is  the  change !  "  sighed  he,  striking  his  hand 
upon  his  breast.  "  Who  is  this  man  of  thought  and  care, 
weary  with- world-wandering,  and  heavy  with  disappointed 
hopes  ?  The  youth  returns  not,  who  went  forth  so  joy- 
ously ! " 

And  now  Ralph  Cranfield  was  at  his  mother's  gate,  in 
front  of  the  small  house  where  the  old  lady,  with  slender 
but  sufficient  means,  had  kept  herself  comfortable  during 
her  son's  long 'absence.  Admitting  himself  within  the 
enclosure,  he  leaned  against  a  great,  old  tree,  trifling 
with  his  own  impatience,  as  people  often  do  in  those 
intervals  when  years  are  summed  into,  a  moment.  He 
took  a  minute  survey  of  the  dwelling,  —  its  windows, 
brightened  with  the  sky-gleam,  its  doorway,  with  the 
half  of  a  mill-stone  for  a  step,  and  the  faintly  traced  path 
waving  thence  to  the  gate.  He  made  friends  again  with 
his  childhood's  friend,  the  old  tree  against  which  he 
leaned ;  and  glancing  his  eye  adown  its  trunk,  beheld 
something  that  excited  a  melancholy  smile.  It  was  a 
half-obliterated  inscription  —  the  Latin  word  EFFODE  — 
which  he  remembered  to  have  carved  in  the  bark  of  the 
tree,  with  a  whole  day's  toil,  when  he  had  first  begun  to 
muse  about  his  exalted  destiny.  It  might  be  accounted 
a  rather  singular  coincidence,  that  the  bark,  just  above 
the  inscription,  had  put  forth  an  excrescence,  shaped  not 
unlike  a  hand,  with  the  forefinger  pointing  obliquely  at 
the  word  of  fate.  Such,  at  least,  was  its  appearance  in 
the  dusky  light. 

"  Now  a  credulous  man,"  said  Ralph  Craufield  care- 


262  TWICE-TOLD    TALES. 

lessly  to  himself,  "might  suppose  that  the  treasure  which 
I  have  sought  round  the  world  lies  buried,  after  all,  at 
the  very  door  of  my  mother's  dwelling.  That  would  be 
a  jest  indeed  !  " 

More  he  thought  not  about  the  matter ;  for  now  the 
door  was  opened,  and  an  elderly  woman  appeared  on  the 
threshold,  peering  into  the  dusk  to  discover  who  it  might 
be  that  had  intruded  on  her  premises,  and  was  standing 
in  the  shadow  of  her  tree.  It  was  Ralph  Cranfield's 
mother.  Pass  we  over  their  greeting,  and  leave  the  one 
to  her  joy  and  the  other  to  his  rest,  —  if  quiet  rest  be 
found. 

But  when  morning  broke,  he  arose  with  a  troubled 
brow ;  for  his  sleep  and  his  wakefulness  had  alike  been 
full  of  dreams.  All  the  fervor  was  rekindled  with  which 
he  had  burned  of  yore  to  unravel  the  threefold  mystery 
of  his  fate.  The  crowd  of  his  early  visions  seemed  to 
have  awaited  him  beneath  his  mother's  roof,  and  thronged 
riotously  around  to  welcome  his  return.  In  the  well- 
remembered  chamber  —  on  the  pillow  where  his  infancy 
had  slumbered  —  he  had  passed  a  wilder  night  than  ever 
in  an  Arab  tent,  or  when  he  had  reposed  his  head  in  the 
ghastly  shades  of  a  haunted  forest.  A  shadowy  maid 
had  stolen  to  his  bedside,  and  laid  her  finger  on  the 
scintillating  heart ;  a  hand  of  flame  had  glowed  amid 
the  darkness,  pointing  downward  to  a  mystery  within  the 
earth ;  a  hoary  sage  had  waved  his  prophetic  wand,  and 
beckoned  the  dreamer  onward  to  a  chair  of  state.  The 
same  phantoms,  though  fainter  in  the  daylight,  still  flitted 
about  the  cottage,  and  mingled  among  the  crowd  of  famil- 
iar faces  that  were  drawn  thither  by  the  news  of  Ralph 
Cranfield's  return,  to  bid  him  welcome  for  his  mother's 
sake.  There  they  found  him,  a  tall,  dark,  stately  man, 
of  foreign  aspect,  courteous  in  demeanor  and  mild  of 


THE   THREEFOLD   DESTINY,  263 

speech,  yet  with  an  abstracted  eye,  which  seemed  often 
to  snatch  a  glance  at  the  invisible. 

Meantime  the  Widow  Cranfield  went  bustling  about 
the  house  full  of  joy  that  she  again  had  somebody  to 
love,  and  be  careful  of,  and  for  whom  she  might  vex  and 
tease  herself  with  the  petty  troubles  of  daily  life.  It  was 
nearly  noon,  when  she  looked  forth  from  the  door,  and 
descried  three  personages  of  note  coming  along  the  street, 
through  the  hot  sunshine  and  the  masses  of  elm-tree 
shade.  At  length  they  reached  her  gate,  and  undid  the 
latch. 

"  See,  Ealph !  "  exclaimed  she,  with  maternal  pride, 
"here  is  Squire  Hawkwood  and  the  two  other  select- 
men coming  on  purpose  to  see  you  !  Now  do  tell  them 
a  good  long  story  about  what  you  have  seen  in  foreign 
parts." 

The  foremost  of  the  three  visitors,  Squire  Hawkwood, 
was  a  very  pompous,  but  excellent  old  gentleman,  the 
head  and  prime  mover  in  all  the  affairs  of  the  village, 
and  universally  acknowledged  to  be  one  of  the  sagest 
men  on  earth.  He  wore,  according  to  a  fashion,  even 
then  becoming  antiquated,  a  three-cornered  hat,  and 
carried  a  silver-headed  cane,  the  use  of  which  seemed  to 
be  rather  for  nourishing  in  the  air  than  for  assisting  the 
progress  of  his  legs.  His  two  companions  were  elderly 
and  respectable  yeomen,  who,  retaining  an  ante-revolu- 
tionary reverence  for  rank  and  hereditary  wealth,  kept  a 
little  in  the  Squire's  rear.  As  they  approached  along  the 
pathway,  Ralph  Cranfield  sat  in  an  oaken  elbow-chair, 
half  unconsciously  gazing  at  the  three  visitors,  and  en- 
veloping their  homely  figures  in  the  misty  romance  that 
pervaded  his  mental  world. 

"  Here,"  thought  he,  smiling  at  the  conceit,  —  "  here 
come  three  elderly  personages,  and  the  first  of  the  three 


261  TWICE-TOLD   TALES. 

is  a  venerable  sage  with  a  staff.  What  if  this  embassy 
should  bring  me  the  message  of  my  fate  !  " 

While  Squire  Hawkwood  and  his  colleagues  entered, 
Ralph  rose  from  his  seat,  and  advanced  a  few  steps  to 
receive  them  ;  and  his  stately  figure  and  dark  counte- 
nance, as  he  bent  courteously  towards  his  guests,  had  a 
natural  dignity,  contrasting  well  M-ith  the  bustling  im- 
portance of  the  Squire.  The  old  gentleman,  according  to 
invariable  custom,  gave  an  elaborate  preliminary  flourish 
with  his  cane  in  the  air,  then  removed  his  three-cornered 
hat  in  order  to  wipe  his  brow,  and  finally  proceeded  to 
make  known  his  errand. 

" My  colleagues  and  myself,"  began  the  Squire,  "are 
burdened  with  momentous  duties,  being  jointly  select- 
men of  this  village.  Our  minds,  for  the  space  of  three 
days  past,  have  been  laboriously  bent  on  the  selection  of 
a  suitable  person  to  fill  a  most  important  office,  and  take 
upon  himself  a  charge  and  rule,  which,  wisely  considered, 
may  be  ranked  no  lower  than  those  of  kings  and  poten- 
tates. And  whereas  you,  our  native  townsman,  are  of 
good  natural  intellect,  and  well  cultivated  by  foreign 
travel,  and  that  certain  vagaries  and  fantasies  of  your 
youth  are  doubtless  long  ago  corrected ;  taking  all  these 
matters,  I  say,  into  due  consideration,  we  are  of  opinion 
that  Providence  hath  sent  you  hither,  at  this  juncture, 
for  our  very  purpose." 

During  this  harangue,  Cranfield  gazed  fixedly  at  the 
speaker,  as  if  he  beheld  something  mysterious  and  un- 
earthly in  his  pompous  little  figure,  and  as  if  the  Squire 
had  worn  the  flowing  robes  of  an  ancient  sage,  instead  of 
a  square-skirted  coat,  flapped  waistcoat,  velvet  breeches, 
and  silk  stockings.  Nor  was  his  wonder  without  suffi- 
cient cause ;  for  the  flourish  of  the  Squire's  staff,  marvel- 
lous to  relate,  had  described  precisely  the  signal  in  the 


THE    THREEFOLD    DESTINY.  2G5 

air  which  was  to  ratify  the  message  of  the  prophetic 
Sage,  whom  Cranfield  had  sought  around  the  world. 

"  And  what,"  inquired  Ralph  Cranfield,  with  a  tremor 
in  his  voice,  —  "  what  may  this  office  be,  which  is  to  equal 
me  with  kings  and  potentates  ?  " 

"  No  less  than  instructor  of  our  village  school,"  an- 
swered Squire  Hawkwood ;  "  the  office  being  now  vacant 
by  the  death  of  the  venerable  Master  Whitaker,  after  a 
fifty  years'  incumbency." 

"  I  will  consider  of  your  proposal,"  replied  Ralph 
Cranfield,  hurriedly,  "  and  will  make  known  my  decision 
within  three  days." 

After  a  few  more  words,  the  village  dignitary  and  his 
companions  took  their  leave.  But  to  Cranfield's  fancy 
their  images  were  still  present,  and  became  more  and 
more  invested  with  the  dim  awfulness  of  figures  which 
had  first  appeared  to  him  in  a  dream,  and  afterwards  had 
shown  themselves  in  his  waking  moments,  assuming 
homely  aspects  among  familiar  things.  His  mind  dwelt 
upon  the  features  of  the  Squire,  till  they  grew  confused 
with  those  of  the  visionary  Sage,  and  one  appeared  but  the 
shadow  of  the  other.  The  'same  visage,  he  now  thought, 
had  looked  forth  upon  him  from  the  Pyramid  of  Cheops  ; 
the  same  form  had  beckoned  to  him  among  the  colonnades 
of  the  Alhambra;  the  same  figure  had  mistily  revealed 
itself  through  the  ascending  steam  of  the  Great  Geyser. 
At  every  effort  of  his  memory  he  recognized  some  trait 
of  the  dreamy  Messenger  of  Destiny,  in  this  pompous, 
bustling,  self-important,  little  great  man  of  the  village. 
Amid  such  musings  Ralph  Cranfield  sat  all  day  in  the 
cottage,  scarcely  hearing  and  vaguely  answering  his 
mother's  thousand  questions  about  his  travels  and  ad- 
ventures. At  sunset  he  roused  himself  to  take  a  stroll, 
and,  passing  the  aged  elm-tree,  his  eye  was  again  caught 

VOL.  II.  12 


266  TWICE-TOLD    TALES. 

by  the  semblance  of  a  hand,  pointing  downward  at  the 
half-obliterated  inscription. 

As  Cranfield  walked  down  the  street  of  the  village, 
the  level  sunbeams  threw  his  shadow  far  before  him  ;  and 
he  fancied  that,  as  his  shadow  walked  among  distant  ob- 
jects, so  had  there  been  a  presentiment  stalking  in  ad- 
vance of  him  throughout  his  life.  And  when  he  drew 
near  each  object,  over  which  his  tall  shadow  had  preceded 
him,  still  it  proved  to  be  one  of  the  familiar  recollections 
of  his  infancy  and  youth.  Every  crook  in  the  pathway 
was  remembered.  Even  the  more  transitory  character- 
istics of  the  scene  were  the  same  as  in  bygone  days.  A 
company  of  cows  were  grazing  on  the  grassy  roadside,  and 
refreshed  him  with  their  fragrant  breath.  "  It  is  sweeter," 
thought  he,  "  than  the  perfume  which  was  wafted  to  our 
ship  from  the  Spice  Islands."  The  round  little  figure  of 
a  child  rolled  from  a  doorway,  and  lay  laughing  almost 
beneath  Cranfield's  feet.  The  dark  and  stately  man 
stooped  down,  and,  lifting  the  infant,  restored  him  to  his 
mother's  arms.  "  The  children,"  said  he  to  himself, 
and  sighed,  and  smiled,  —  "  the  children  are  to  be  my 
charge ! "  And  while  a  flow  of  natural  feeling  gushed 
like  a  wellspring  in  his  heart,  he  came  to  a  dwelling 
which  he  could  nowise  forbear  to  enter.  A  sweet  voice, 
which  seemed  to  come  from  a  deep  and  tender  soul,  was 
warbling  a  plaintive  little  air,  within. 

He  bent  his  head,  and  passed  through  the  lowly  door. 
As  his  foot  sounded  upon  the  threshold,  a  young  woman 
advanced  from  the  dusky  interior  of  the  house,  at  first 
hastily,  and  then  with  a  more  uncertain  step,  till  they 
met  face  to  face.  There  was  a  singular  contrast  in  their 
two  figures ;  he  dark  and  picturesque,  —  one  who  had 
battled  with  the  world,  —  whom  all  suns  had  shone  upon, 
and  whom  all  winds  had  blown  on  a  varied  course ;  she 


THE    THREEFOLD    DESTINY.  267 

neat,  comely,  and  quiet,  —  quiet  even  in  her  agitation,  — 
as  if  all  her  emotions  had  been  subdued  to  the  peaceful 
tenor  of  her  life.  Yet  their  faces,  all  unlike  as  they  were, 
had  an  expression  that  seemed  not  so  alien,  —  a  glow 
of  kindred  feeling,  flashing  upward  anew  from  half-extin- 
guished embers. 

"  You  are  welcome  home  !  "  said  Faith  Egerton. 

But  Cranfield  did  not  immediately  answer  ;  for  his  eye 
had  been  caught  by  an  ornament  in  the  shape  of  a  Heart, 
which  Faith  wore  as  a  brooch  upon  her  bosom.  The 
material  was  the  ordinary  white  quartz  ;  and  he  recol- 
lected having  himself  shaped  it  out  of  one  of  those  Indian 
arrowheads,  which  are  so  often  found  in  the  ancient  haunts 
of  the  red  men.  It  was  precisely  on  the  pattern  of  that 
worn  by  the  visionary  Maid.  When  Cranfield  departed 
on  his  shadowy  search  he  had  bestowed  this  brooch,  in  a 
gold  setting,  as  a  parting  gift  to  Faith  Egerton. 

"  So,  Faith,  you  have  kept  the  Heart !  "  said  he,  at 
length. 

"Yes,"  said  she,  blushing  deeply;  then  more  gayly, 
"  and  what  else  have  you  brought  me  from  beyond  the 
sea  ?  " 

"  Faith  !  "  replied  Ralph  Cranfield,  uttering  the  fated 
words  by  an  uncontrollable  impulse,  "  I  have  brought 
you  nothing  but  a  heavy  heart !  May  I  rest  its  weight 
on  you  ?  " 

"  This  token,  which  I  have  worn  so  long,"  said  Faith, 
laying  her  tremulous  finger  on  the  Heart,  "  is  the  assur- 
ance that  you  may  !  " 

"  Faith  !  Faith  !  "  cried  Cranfield,  clasping  her  in  his 
arms,  "  you  have  interpreted  my  wild  and  weary  dream  !  " 

Yes,  the  wild  dreamer  was  awake  at  last.  To  find  the 
mysterious  treasure,  he  was  to  till  the  earth  around  his 
mother's  dwelling,  and  reap  its  products  !  Instead  of 


268  TWICE-TOLD    TALES. 

warlike  command,  or  regal  or  religious  sway,  he  was  to 
rule  over  the  village  children  !  And  now  the  visionary 
Maid  had  faded  from  his  fancy,  and  in  her  place  he  saw 
the  playmate  of  his  childhood  !  Would  all,  who  cherish 
such  wild  wishes,  but  look  around  them,  they  would  ofteu- 
est  find  their  sphere  of  duty,  of  prosperity,  and  happiness 
within  those  precincts,  and  in  that  station  where  Provi- 
dence itself  has  cast  their  lot.  Happy  they  who  read  the 
riddle,  without  a  weary  world-search,  or  a  lifetime  spent 


Cambridge:  Electrotyped  and  Printed  by  Welch.  Bigelow,  &  Co. 


